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Samuel  JH»  Crotjjera 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LAND 
LORD  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS. 

MEDITATIONS  ON  VOTES  FOR  WOMEN. 

HUMANLY  SPEAKING. 

AMONG  FRIENDS. 

BY  THE  CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 

THE  PARDONER'S    WALLET. 

THE  ENDLESS    LIFE. 

THE  GENTLE  READER. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES:  THE  AUTO 
CRAT  AND  HIS  FELLOW  BOARDERS.  With 
Portrait. 

MISS  MUFFET'S  CHRISTMAS  PARTY.  Illus 
trated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE   PLEASURES 

OF   AN   ABSENTEE   LANDLORD 

AND   OTHER    ESSAYS 


THE   PLEASURES   OF 

AN   ABSENTEE 

LANDLORD 

AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 


HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK  : :  THE 

RIVERSIDE     PRESS    CAMBRIDGE. 

MDCCCCXVI 


• 

C 


COPYRIGHT,    1916,   BY   SAMUEL    MCCHORD    CROTHERS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  November  iqib 


CONTENTS 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD          .       I 
PROTECTIVE  COLORING  IN  EDUCATION     ...     27 

CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY  OF  TEACHING 

EPAPHRODITUS  TO  EPICTETUS         *        .        .        «     50 

EPICTETUS  TO  EPAPHRODITUS          .       •*        .         .67 

THE  CHARM  OF  SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY  PROSE     .     71 

THOMAS  FULLER  AND  HIS  "WORTHIES'*.        .        .    95 

A  LITERARY  CLINIC .117 

THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 150 

THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF  MINOR  POETS  .         .         .171 

THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN 193 

THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE    ......  107 


345230 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  AN  ABSENTEE 
LANDLORD:  With  Remarks  on  the 
Irresponsible  reading  of  HISTORY. 


IN  the  troubled  history  of  Ireland  the  villain 
was  the  Absentee  Landlord.  Nothing  good 
was  ever  said  of  him.  He  was  a  parasite  for 
whom  no  apology  could  be  made.  The  sum  of 
his  iniquities  was  that  he  enjoyed  property  with 
out  assuming  any  of  the  responsibilities  that 
belonged  to  it. 

In  England  he  might  be  an  excellent  mem 
ber  of  society,  conscious  of  the  duties  of  a  citi 
zen  and  neighbor.  But  his  occasional  visits  to 
his  estates  across  St.  George's  Channel  were  not 
even  for  the  purpose  of  collecting  his  rents  — 
that  he  left  to  his  agents.  With  some  careless 
companions  he  would  spend  a  rollicking  fort 
night  or  two  among  his  tenantry,  receive  their 
"  God  bless  you's,"  for  nothing  at  all,  and  then 
return  to  the  serious  business  of  life. 


i  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

All  this  was  very  reprehensible,  and  justifies 
the  reproaches  which  have  been  visited  upon 
absentee  landlordism.  The  pleasures  of  the  ab 
sentee  landlord  were  wicked  pleasures,  because 
they  were  gained  at  the  expense  of  others.  But 
this  is  not  to  deny  that  they  were  real  pleasures. 
Property  plus  responsibility  is  a  serious  matter. 
Irresponsible  ownership  is  a  rose  without  a 
thorn.  If  we  can  come  by  it  honestly  and  with 
out  any  detriment  to  others,  we  are  to  be  con 
gratulated. 

The  most  innocent  form  in  which  this  un 
moral  pleasure  can  be  enjoyed  is  in  the  owner 
ship  of  an  abandoned  farm.  Of  course  one  must 
satisfy  his  social  conscience  by  making  sure  that 
the  agricultural  derelict  was  abandoned  for  good 
cause,  and  that  the  former  owner  bettered  his 
condition  by  moving  away.  In  the  mountain 
regions  of  New  England  it  is  not  difficult  to 
find  such  places.  At  the  gate  of  the  hill  farm 
the  genuine  farmer  stands  aside  and  says  to  the 
summer  resident,  "After  you." 

To  one  who  possesses  a  bit  of  such  land,  the 
charm  lies  in  the  sense  of  irresponsibility.  One 
can  without  compunction  do  what  he  will  with 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD        3 

his  own,  with  the  comfortable  assurance  that  no 
one  could  do  much  better. 

When  as  an  Absentee  Landlord  I  run  up  to 
my  ragged,  unkempt  acres  on  a  New  Hampshire 
hilltop,  I  love  to  read  the  Book  of  Proverbs  with 
their  insistence  on  sleepless  industry. 

"  I  went  by  the  field  of  the  slothful  .  .  .  and 
lo !  it  was  all  grown  over  with  thorns ;  and  net 
tles  had  covered  the  face  thereof  and  the  stone 
wall  thereof  was  broken  down." 

What  a  perfect  description  of  my  estate ! 

"  Then  I  saw  and  considered  it  well.  I  looked 
upon  it  and  received  instruction  .  .  ." 

The  sluggard  saith,  "  Yet  a  little  sleep  and 
a  little  slumber,  a  little  folding  of  the  hands 
in  sleep.  So  shall  poverty  come  as  one  that 
travelleth." 

I  say,  How  true!  If  I  had  to  make  my  liv 
ing  by  farming,  these  words  would  stir  me  to 
agricultural  effort.  But  as  it  is,  they  have  a 
soothing  sound.  If  my  neighbor  does  n't  like 
the  wild  blackberries,  that  is  his  misery,  not 
mine.  I  prefer  the  picturesque,  broken-down 
wall  to  his  spick-and-span  one. 

If  he  asks  why,  I  will  not  reason  with  him ; 


4  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

for  does  not  the  proverb  say,  "  The  sluggard  is 
wiser  in  his  own  conceit  than  seven  men  that 
can  render  a  reason  "  *? 

That  is  the  way  I  feel.  I  propose  for  several 
weeks  in  the  year  to  be  a  sluggard  with  all  the 
rights  and  privileges  appertaining  thereto. 

"The  sluggard  will  not  plough  by  reason 
of  the  cold,  therefore  in  harvest  he  shall  have 
nothing." 

My  experience  confirms  this.  But  then  I  did 
not  expect  to  have  anything. 

"By  much  slothfulness  the  building  decay- 
eth." 

This  also  I  observe,  not  without  a  certain  meas 
ure  of  quiet  satisfaction.  The  house  is  not  what  it 
used  to  be.  How  much  less  stiff  and  formal  every 
thing  is  under  the  mellowing  influence  of  time. 
Nature  corrects  our  tendency  to  deal  too  exclu 
sively  in  straight  lines.  What  an  improvement  has 
come  with  that  slight  sag  in  the  roof.  How  much 
more  lovable  the  shingles  are  than  in  their  self- 
assertive  youth.  What  an  artist  the  weather  is 
in  the  matter  of  staining.  It  is  an  Old  Master 
retouching  the  work  of  the  village  painter. 
Nature  is  toning  down  the  mistakes  of  man.  A 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD        5 

little  sleep  and  a  little  slumber,  and  the  house 
will  cease  to  be  a  blot  on  the  landscape. 

I  should  not  like  to  feel  that  way  all  the  year, 
for  I  am  a  great  believer  in  the  industrial  virtues 
when  they  keep  their  place.  When  I  observe 
people  who  feel  that  way  all  the  time,  I  feel 
like  remonstrating  with  them.  When  I  observe 
people  who  never  feel  that  way,  I  do  not  re 
monstrate  with  them  —  it  would  do  no  good. 
But  I  like  now  and  then  to  escape  from  their 
company. 

The  pleasure  which  one  gets  out  of  the  own 
ership  of  an  abandoned  farm  is  of  the  same  kind 
which  one  may  get  out  of  history.  I  am  not  speak 
ing  of  history  as  it  appears  to  the  serious  historian. 
He  is  engaged  in  a  business  which  ^demands 
conscientious  industry.  The  past  is  to  him  a 
field  of  research,  and  it  must  be  cultivated  in 
tensively  if  he  is  to  get  valuable  results.  He  is 
never  free  from  the  sense  of  responsibility. 

But  because  the  serious  historian  is  virtuous 
and  follows  scientific  methods,  shall  there  be  no 
cakes  and  ale  for  those  who  require  only  to  re 
fresh  their  minds  by  little  excursions  into  the 


6  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

pafct?  They  do  not  desire  to  interfere  with 
business  nor  to  trespass  on  cultivated  fields. 
They  are  in  holiday  mood,  and  desirous  only 
of  getting  away  from  the  humdrum  life  into  a 
region  where  they  may  have  a  liberating  sense 
of  irresponsibility. 

A  recent  congress  of  historians  was  congratu 
lated  on  the  progress  which  had  been  made  "  since 
history  ceased  to  be  a  pleasant  branch  of  litera 
ture  and  has  become  the  work  of  eager  and  con 
scientious  specialists."  Now  one  may  admire  the 
work  of  these  conscientious  specialists  and  yet 
see  no  reason  why  history  as  a  pleasant  branch 
of  literature  should  cease.  In  the  present  there 
is  room  both  for  work  and  for  play.  One  may  go 
to  his  office  or  he  may  go  fishing  without  losing 
his  right  to  live.  Why  may  one  not  have  the 
same  liberty  in  regard  to  time  past  ? 

The  scientific  historian  may  ask,  if  recreation 
is  what  is  wanted,  why  does  not  the  vacationist 
content  himself  with  the  historical  romances  pro 
vided  for  just  such  idle  persons?  The  answer 
is  that  it  is  not  romance  but  reality  with  which 
he  wishes  to  come  into  contact.  Only  he  wants 
to  enjoy  his  reality  in  his  own  care-free  "way. 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD        7 

Our  real  motive^  for  going  into  the  past,  if 
we  are  allowed  to  confess  it  frankly,  is  to 
get  away  from  our  contemporaries.,,  If  our 
sole  object  were  to  acquire  a  stock  of  use 
ful  knowledge,  we  should  be  inclined  to  stay 
where  we  are  and  confine  our  attention  to  the 
facts  of  the  present  time,  which  we  may  learn 
by  personal  observation. 

But  to  live  all  the  time  among  our  contem 
poraries  is  not' good  for  us.  'They  may  be  excel 
lent  people,  but  there  are  too  many  of  them,  and 
they  are  always  standing  around  waiting  to  do 
something  for  us  or  have  us  do  something  for 
them.  They  are  at  once  our  collaborators  and 
our  critics.  We  can  have  no  relations  with  our 
contemporaries  that  do  not  involve  responsibili 
ties.  If  we  do  one  thing,  we  must  do  something 
else  to  match  it.  If  we  express  a  good  thought, 
our  contemporaries  will  demand  a  good  act  to 
correspond.  If  we  express  an  interest  in  a 
worthy  cause,  they  at  once  present  us  with  a 
subscription  paper.  A  good  word  is  a  promise 
to  pay,  and  when  it  comes  due  we  may  not  be 
prepared  to  meet  our  obligations. 

After  a  while  we  are  in  danger  of  becoming 


8  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

Malthusians.  It  seems  as  if  the  population  of 
duties  increased  faster  than  the  means  of  moral 
subsistence.  It  is  all  very  well  to  say :  "  Look 
out  and  not  in."  But  when  we  do  so  we  must 
expect  to  hear  the  next  admonition,  "Lend  a 
hand."  When  both  hands  are  full,  looking  out 
ceases  to  be  a  pleasure. 

It  is  in  the  attempt  at  self-protection  that  danger 
to  our  spontaneity  comes.  The  man  who  finds 
it  increasingly  difficult  to  make  both  ends  meet, 
morally  speaking,  begins  to  economize  in  his 
thinking  and  feeling.  He  does  not  wish  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  new  thoughts  that  might 
involve  new  expenditures.  He  will  not  intrude 
himself  on  ideals  that  are  above  his  station  in 
life. 

In  the  hand-to-mouth  struggle  for  existence 
he  cuts  off  all  luxuries  and  develops  a  standard 
ized  intelligence.  This  makes  him  safe  but  un 
interesting.  That  does  not  matter  to  him,  so  long 
as  he  is  young,  for  then  he  is  at  least  interesting 
to  himself.  But,  after  a  time,  even  that  solace 
fails  him.  His  state  is  that  indicated  in  the 
familiar  reports  of  the  stock  market  —  "  Nar 
row,  Dull,  and  Firm."  ? 

TVU« 

*- 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD     w .  jj^X      h}^ 

It  is  when  we  are  in  danger  of  falling  into 
this  state  that  the  call  of  the  past  comes  to  us.     JL.> 
It  is  like  the  call  of  the  woods  and  mountains.         U-^. 
We  can  there  see  things  going  on  without  being       ,  ^Jt 
responsible  for  the  outcome.   By  getting  away  ^ ^^ 
from  our  contemporaries  we  can  be  care-free 
spectators  of  the  play  of  human  forces.  Not  be 
ing  able  to  do  anything  about  it,  we  can  have 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  what  it  is  really  like. 

With  our  contemporaries  we  cannot  indulge 
in  the  luxury  of  seeing  both  sides.  For  we  have 

to  take  one  side  and  stick  to  it  valiantly.   We£v: 

i     •  -IT      j-     dpi  ( 

cannot  get  on  sympathetic  terms  with  bandits 

and  bigots  and  other  interesting  characters,  for 
we  should  be  liable  to  encourage  them  in  their 
wrongdoing.  We  must  either  approve  or  dis 
approve  heartily,  which  is  fatal  to  the  process 
of  understanding.  But  if  we  make  the  acquaint 
ance  of  persons  in  another  generation,  we  can 
enter  into  their  point  of  view  with  impunity. 

I  remember  how  in  the  Excelsior  Society  we 
used  to  debate  the  question :  "  Was  the  execu 
tion  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  justifiable4?"  Some 
times  we  thought  it  was,  and  sometimes  we 
thought  it  was  n't.  We  changed  sides  in  the 


io  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

most  shameful  fashion.  We  had  not  the  slightest 
compunction  in  telling  anything  we  found  out. 
There  were  no  prudential  considerations.  We 
knew  that  the  execution  had  taken  place  long 
ago,  and  no  mistakes  which  we  might  make 
would  prejudice  the  case. 

And  there  was  the  question:  "Was  the  career 
of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  beneficial  to  Europe?" 
We  reveled  in  the  contradictory  facts  which  we 
discovered.  There  was  so  much  to  be  said  on 
both  sides.  Nothing  Napoleonic  was  alien  to  us 
of  the  Excelsior  Society.  We  might  debate  on 
this  subject  for  many  moons,  and  the  arguments 
would  not  lose  their  zest.  But  had  we  been  liv 
ing  in  France  in  the  time  of  Napoleon,  we 
should  not  have  experienced  these  fine  and  stim 
ulating  pleasures.  We  should  have  been  con- 
U  fined  strictly  to  one  side  of  the  controversy.  If 
we  had  attempted  to  argue  that  the  career  of 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  not  altogether  bene 
ficial  to  Europe,  we  should  have  speedily  learned 
\J*  that  the  expression  of  this  opinion  was  not  bene 
ficial  to  us.  These  prudential  considerations 
would  have  severely  limited  the  activities  of  our 
minds. 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD       n 

Have  you  never  noticed  the  intellectual  im 
provement  that  comes  to  a  statesman  who  has  \\X^ 
survived  his  generation,  and  in  his  care-free  old 
age  writes  reminiscences  of  a  time  that  has  now 
passed  into  history?  When  he  was  in  office  he 
never  had  a  chance  to  express  his  personal 
opinions.  He  did  not  dare  to  say  anything  that 
might  be  misunderstood  by  his  contemporaries, 
or  have  a  bad  effect  on  the  next  election.  But 
now  he  is  able  to  think  and  to  speak  freely.  It 
is  the  blessed  sense  of  irresponsibility  that  pro 
duces  this  result. 

Some  easy  method  of  getting  away  from  one's 
own  time  is  desirable.  I  saw  in  a  newspaper  a 
suggestion  from  an  inventive  person  in  a  Penn 
sylvania  valley  that  we  might  utilize  the  rotation 
of  the  earth  to  reduce  the  cost  of  travel.  His 
notion  of  the  law  of  gravitation  was  more  simple 
than  that  of  most  men  of  science,  and  he  evi 
dently  imagined  that  it  was  something  easily 
evaded.  His  plan  was  to  rise  in  a  balloon  a  few 
miles  and  stand  still  while  the  globe  whirled 
round.  All  the  traveler  had  to  do  was  to  adopt 
a  policy  of  watchful  waiting.  When  Samarcand 
or  Jerusalem  came  "into  view  beneath  Trim,  he 


~ 


., 


12  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

would  descend  and  make  himself  at  home.  In 
traveling  through  Space  there  are  objections  to 
this  plan  on  the  score  of  practicability.  But  it 
represents  the  way  we  may  travel  through  Time. 
All  we  have  to  do  is  to  detach  ourselves  from 
v  cAx^  the  present  and  drop  into  any  century  which 
attracts  our  attention.  We  find  interesting  peo 
ple  who  are  doing  interesting  things.  We  may 
listen  to  their  talk  and  share  their  enthusiasms. 
f  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  have  a  little  place  in 
the  Past  to  which  we  may  go  with  the  care-free 
mind  of  the  Absentee  Landlord.  We  have  no 
responsibility  for  its  being  as  it  is.  We  do  not 
feel  in  conscience  bound  to  improve  it. 

Though  the  Absentee  Landlord  is  not  indus 
trious  or  conscientious,  there  is  one  thing  that 
should  commend  him  to  the  scientific  historian. 
He  prefers  original  sources  to  the  formal  re 
constructions  made  at  a  later  period.  As  his 
pleasure  consists  in  making  a  past  period 
seem  present  to  him,  he  wishes  to  come  into 
direct  contact  with  the  people  who  were  then 
alive.  He  is  not  interested  so  much  in  the 
sequence  of  events  as  in  people  and  their 
thoughts.  He  wants  to  know,  not  only  what 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD      13 

they  did,  but  how  they  felt  when  they  were 
doing  it.  He  does  not  much  care  for  the  his 
torian,  who  is  like  the  man  with  the  megaphone 
in  the  "Seeing  New  York"  motor-bus,  who  tells 
his  passengers  what  they  ought  to  see,  while 
the  bus  moves  so  rapidly  that  they  can't  see  it. 

He  does  not  care  for  the  kind  of  history  that 
does  not  take  us  away  from  our  own  time  at  all, 
but  is  simply  a  projection  of  contemporary  ideas 
upon  the  past. 

Here  is  a  book  published  in  the  early  nine 
teenth  century  which  illustrates  a  certain  way  of 
imparting  historical  information.  It  was  written 
with  the  intention  of  making  history  interesting 
to  persons  who  did  not  want  to  venture  into  the 
Unfamiliar.  It  is  a  "History  of  the  Patriarchs." 
The  author  evidently  thought  that  if  the  patri 
archs  were  conceived  of  as  New  England  select 
men  they  could  be  made  as  interesting  as  if  they 
were  really  New  England  selectmen.  And  lam 
not  sure  but  that  he  succeeded.  The  book  is 
divided  into  two  parts :  a  conversation  with  Adam 
covering  the  space  of  nine  hundred  and  thirty 
years,  and  an  interview  with  Noah  giving  an 
account  of  the  Deluge  and  other  events  with 


i4  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

which  he  was  familiar.  They  are  represented 
as  nice  old  gentlemen,  strictly  orthodox  in 
opinion.  Adam  speaks  hopefully  of  Methu 
selah,  who,  he  says,  "  must  now  be  about  fifty- 
seven  years  old  and  is  a  discreet  and  well- 
principled  youth."  He  was  much  disturbed  over 
the  Tubal-Cains,  who  had  taken  to  radical  views 
and  were  becoming  lax  in  their  church  attend 
ance.  There  was  nothing  in  the  book  to  indicate 
that  either  Adam  or  Noah  had  ever  been  out  of 
Connecticut. 

The  "History  of  Influenza"  is  a  book  pro 
duced  on  the  same  principle.  The  author,  who, 
it  is  needless  to  say,  was  a  physician,  instead  of 
giving  a  first-hand  account  of  the  influenzas  he 
had  known,  chose  to  treat  his  subject  historically. 
It  is  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  the  impression 
of  consecutiveness  that  wearies  us.  After  one 
has  followed  the  influenza  from  the  Greek  and 
Roman  period,  through  the  Dark  Ages,  the 
Renaissance  and  the  Protestant  Reformation, 
human  history  seems  one  prolonged  sneeze.  But 
in  all  this  historical  excursion  one  feels  that  in 
reality  he  has  been  made  acquainted  with  noth 
ing  that  he  could  not  have  found  at  home. 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD       15 

Many  historical  monographs  are  open  to  the 
same  objection.  The  historian  starts  with  a 
modern  political  or  economic  theory,  then  he 
searches  the  records  of  the  past  for  instances  to 
support  it.  The  facts  once  discovered  and  veri 
fied,  he  fits  them  together  with  mechanical  pre 
cision,  and  lo,  a  new  history ! 

There  is  no  question  about  the  facts  presented. 
They  are  chosen  to  illustrate  his  thesis.  But  I 
cannot  help  thinking  of  the  innumerable  little 
facts  which  he  leaves  out.  They  were  very  much 
alive  once.  My  heart  yearns  for  these  non-elect 
infants. 

The  Absentee  Landlord,  having  no  modem 
axe  to  grind,  can  accept  the  facts  that  fit  into 
no  formal  scheme.  He  is  not  responsible  for 
their  existence,  and  having  resolved  to  do  no 
manner  of  work  he  can  indulge  in  idle  curiosity. 
There  being  no  possibility  of  improving  the 
people  he  meets  with,  he  can,  without  self- 
reproach,  take  time  to  see  them  as  they  are 
themselves. 

Our  pleasure  in  observing  the  fashions  of  our 
own  day  is  marred  by  the  fact  that  we  may  be 
expected  to  follow  them.  If  we  disapprove  of 


1 6  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

them,  it  may  be  interpreted  as  being  an  admis 
sion  that  we  are  not  as  young  as  we  once 
were. 

If  we  go  to  an  exhibition  of  pictures  which 
purport  to  be  the  latest  word  in  Art,  we  are  not 
free  in  the  expression  of  our  opinion.  The  artist 
or  his  friends  may  be  near  at  hand.  When  we 
are  toldathat  the  artist  is  not  portraying  an  actual 
scene,  but  only  painting  the  state  of  his  own 
mind,  we  hasten  away.  Perhaps  that  state  of 
mind  is  catching.  But  in  even  the  evil  fashions 
of  a  generation  that  has  completely  passed  away 
there  is  no  danger.  We  may  be  rid  of  all  ignoble 
fear  of  contagion.  The  passage  of  time  has 
brought  immunity.  We  may  share  the  confi 
dences  of  old-time  sinners  without  any  uneasy 
sense  that  we  are  compounding  a  felony. 

Nor  do  variations  of  moral  standards  trouble 
us  when  we  are  relieved  from  the  thought 
that  they  are  likely  to  affect  any  one  for  whom 
we  are  responsible. 

I  find  satisfaction  in  dropping  into  the  year 
1675  and  taking  up  a  little  pamphlet,  "The 
Discovery  of  Witches,  by  Mathew  Hopkins, 
witch-finder,  for  the  benefit  of  the  whole  king- 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD       17 

dom."  I  can  read  Mathew  Hopkins's  plea  for 
the  restoration  of  his  business  without  any  irrita 
tion.  I  can  really  get  his  point  of  view.  Mathew 
Hopkins  was  not  a  fanatic  or  a  theorist.  He  was 
a  businesslike  person  who  had  taken  up  the  trade 
of  witch-finding  as  another  man  might  be  a 
plumber.  He  was  not  an  extremist.  He  utterly 
denied  that  the  confession  of  a  witch  was  of 
any  validity  if  it  was  drawn  from  her  by 
torture  or  violence.  It  was  the  practical  side  of 
witchcraft  that  interested  him.  When  he  took  up 
the  business  of  witch-finding,  it  was  on  a  sound 
basis  and  offered  a  living  for  an  industrious  and 
frugal  practitioner.  But  now  the  business  is  in 
a  bad  way.  Whatever  people  may  think,  there 
is  no  money  in  it. 

How  pathetic  is  the  statement  of  present-day 
conditions.  Mr.  Hopkins  "demands  but  twenty 
shillings  a  town,  and  doth  sometimes  ride  twenty 
miles  for  that,  and  hath  no  more  for  his  charges 
thither  and  back  again  (and  it  may  be  stayes  a 
weeke  there)  and  finds  there  three  or  four 
witches,  or  it  may  be  but  one.  Cheap  enough ! 
And  this  is  the  greate  sum  he  takes  to  main 
tain  his  companie,  with  three  horses ! 


t» 


1 8  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

That  touch  of  honest  sarcasm  makes  me  un 
derstand  Mathew  Hopkins.  He  is  so  sure  that 
something  is  wrong,  and  so  impervious  to  any 
considerations  not  connected  with  shillings  and 
pence.  That  the  business  depression  was  con 
nected  with  a  great  intellectual  revolution  did 
not  occur  to  him.  How  pale  all  rationalistic  ar 
guments  must  have  seemed  to  a  man  with  three 
horses  eating  their  heads  off  in  the  stables ! 

If  Mathew  Hopkins  were  living  to-day,  I 
should  not  permit  myself  to  sympathize  with  him 
in  his  business  perplexities,  even  to  the  extent 
of  trying  to  understand  how  a  man  in  his  posi 
tion  would  feel.  But  I  have  not  the  slightest 
fear  that  the  business  of  witch-finding  will  be 
revived  on  any  commercial  scale.  So  from  the 
security  of  the  twentieth  century  I  am  able 
to  look  upon  Mathew  Hopkins  as  a  human 
being.  From  that  period  of  view  I  am  able 
to  see  the  resemblance  between  him  and  many 
other  human  beings  of  my  acquaintance.  A  great 
many  of  them  are  better  than  their  business. 

A  formal  history  of  witchcraft  does  not  give 
me  the  same  intimate  sense  of  it  as  does  Matthew 
Hopkins's  dry  business  like  statement.  He  was 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD      19 

actually  making  his  living  by  it.  My  imagina 
tion  is  not  strong  enough  to  make  a  witch  riding 
at  midnight  seem  real.  But  the  witch-finder  is 
flesh  and  blood. 

The  historians,  in  attempting  to  give  us  an 
account  of  the  movements  of  masses,  fail  to 
awaken  human  interest.  The  historian  in  the 
Book  of  Mormon,  in  his  narrative  of  the  tribal 
wars,  complains  of  the  difficulty  of  his  task:  — 

"Now  there  were  many  records  kept  of  the 
proceedings  of  this  people,  by  many  of  this 
people,  which  are  particular  and  very  large  con 
cerning  them.  But  behold  a  hundredth  part  of 
the  proceedings  of  this  people,  yea  the  account 
of  the  Lamanites  and  of  the  Nephites  and  their 
wars  and  contentions  and  dissensions,  and  their 
preaching  and  their  prophecies,  and  their  build 
ing  of  ships  and  building  of  temples  and  syna 
gogues,  and  their  sanctuaries  and  their  righteous 
ness,  and  their  wickedness  and  their  robbings 
and  plunderingsand  all  manner  of  abominations 
cannot  be  contained  in  this  work.  But  behold 
there  are  many  books,  and  many  records  of 
every  kind,  and  they  have  been  chiefly  kept  by 
the  Nephites." 


20  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

There  you  have  the  real  difficulty  in  writing 
a  history  of  the  Lamanites.  There  is  plenty  of 
material,  indeed,  too  much  of  it.  The  generali 
ties  like  wars  and  contentions  and  building  of 
temples  and  robbings  and  plunderings  become 
monotonous  unless  you  have  some  inkling  as  to 
what  sort  of  people  did  these  things.  You  can 
not  trust  the  Nephites  to  give  the  Lamanitish 
point  of  view.  For  myself  I  should  rather  have  a 
chance  to  meet  a  single  Lamanite  and  hear  his  own 
account  of  himself  than  to  be  told  of  the  mani 
fold  "  proceedings  "  of  his  tribe.  For  one  thing,  it 
would  quiet  the  doubt  as  to  whether  there  ever 
was  a  Lamanite. 

It  is  the  little  things,  and  not  the  big  things, 
which  make  me  feel  at  home.  The  historical 
personage  must  be  something  more  than  the 
symbol  of  a  movement  before  we  have  a  feeling 
that  he  belongs  to  us. 

St.  Basil  the  Great  was  to  me  but  one  of  the 
Greek  Fathers  till  I  came  across  a  familiar  let 
ter  which  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Antipater,  the 
Governor  of  Cappadocia.  Since  then  he  has 
been  a  very  real  person.  Basil  is  writing,  not 
about  heresies  but  about  pickled  cabbage,  which 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD      21 

his  friend  Antipater  had  recommended  for 
its  health-giving  qualities.  He  has  heretofore 
been  prejudiced  against  it  as  a  vulgar  vege 
table,  but  now  that  it  has  worked  such  wonders 
with  his  friend  he  will  esteem  it  equal  to  the 
ambrosia  of  the  gods  —  whatever  that  maybe. 
This  is  an  excellent  introduction  to  St.  Basil. 
Starting  the  conversation  with  pickled  cab 
bage,  one  can  easily  lead  up  to  more  serious 
subjects. 

If  it  happens  that  we  can  make  any  little  dis 
covery  of  our  own  and  find  it  confirmed  by 
somebody  in  a  previous  generation,  it  puts  us 
at  our  ease  and  forms  a  natural  means  of  ap 
proach.  It  is  always  wise  to  provide  for  such 
introductions  to  strangers.  Thus,  though  I  am 
not  a  smoker,  I  like  to  carry  matches  in  my 
pocket.  One  is  always  liable  to  be  accosted 
on  the  street  by  some  one  in  need  of  a  light. 
To  be  able  to  give  a  match  is  a  great  luxury. 
It  forms  the  basis  for  a  momentary  friend 
ship. 

One  is  often  able  to  have  that  same  feeling 
toward  some  one  who  would  otherwise  be  a 
mere  historical  personage.  My  acquaintance 


ii  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

with  Lord  Chesterfield  came  about  in  that  way. 
Several  years  ago  I  wrote  an  essay  for  the  "At 
lantic  Monthly"  on  "The  Hundred  Worst 
Books."  For  a  place  on  the  list  I  selected  a 
book  in  my  library  entitled  "  Poems  on  Several 
Occasions,"  published  in  1749,  by  one  Jones, 
a  poet  altogether  unknown  to  me  till  I  pe 
rused  his  verse.  The  pages  were  so  fresh  that 
I  cherished  the  belief  that  I  was  the  only  reader 
in  a  century  and  a  half.  I  had  the  pride  of  pos 
session  in  Jones. 

It  was  some  time  after  that  I  came  across,  in 
Walpole's  letters,  an  allusion  to  my  esteemed 
poet.  It  seems  that  Colley  Gibber,  when  he 
thought  he  was  dying,  wrote  to  the  Prime  Min 
ister,  "recommending  the  bearer,  Mr.  Henry 
Jones,  for  the  vacant  laurel.  Lord  Chesterfield 
will  tell  you  more  of  him." 

I  was  never  more  astonished  in  my  life  than 
when  I  visualized  the  situation,  and  saw  my 
friend  Jones,  the  bearer  of  a  demand  for  the 
reversion  to  the  laureateship. 

It  seemed  that  Walpole  was  equally  sur 
prised,  and  when  he  next  met  Lord  Chester 
field  the  eager  question  was,  Who  was  Jones, 


r\v 

AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD      13 

and  why  should  he  be  recommended  for  the 
position  of  poet  laureate"?  Lord  Chesterfield 
answered,  "  A  better  poet  would  not  take  the 
post  and  a  worse  ought  not  to  have  it."  It  ap 
pears  that  Jones  was  an  Irish  bricklayer  and 
had  made  it  his  custom  to  work  a  certain  num 
ber  of  hours  according  to  an  undeviating  rule. 
He  would  lay  a  layer  of  brick  and  then  compose 
a  line  of  poetry,  and  so  on  till  his  day's  task  was 
over.  This  accounts  for  the  marvelous  evenness 
of  his  verse. 

This  was  but  a  small  discovery,  but  it  gave  a 
real  pleasure,  for  should  I  meet  my  Lord  Ches 
terfield,  he  and  I  would  at  once  have  a  com 
mon  interest.  We  both  had  discovered  Jones, 
and  quite  independently. 

Let  no  one  think  that  these  irresponsible  so- 
journings  in  familiar  parts  of  past  time  are 
recommended  as  substitutes  for  the  painstaking 
work  of  conscientious  historians.  They  are  not. 
But  they  have  a  value  of  their  own.  The  mod 
est  intention  is  to  recover  some  point  in  the 
past  and  live  in  it  as  in  the  present,  to  leave  our 
contemporaries  and  become  the  contemporaries 
of  persons  of  another  generation. 


24  THE  PLEASURES  OF 

In  order  to  do  this  we  must  share  their  limi 
tations.  That  which  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  pres 
ent  is  the  extent  of  its  environing  ignorance, 
Something  we  may  know  of  the  past,  but  the 
future  is  hidden  in  the  mists.  In  the  story  of 
the  Creation  "the  evening  and  the  morning 
were  the  first  day."  So  it  has  been  with  each 
creative  day.  Each  has  its  evening  and  its 
morning  which  wall  it  in,  and  keep  it  distinct 
from  every  other  period  of  time.  To  live  in  any 
period  we  must  preserve  the  sense  of  our  eve 
ning  and  morning.  We  must  rid  our  minds  of 
that  most  confusing  knowledge,  the  knowledge 
which  comes  after  the  event.  The  present  would 
not  be  to  us  the  present  if  we  knew  how  every 
thing  was  going  to  come  out.  We  could  not 
live  and  work  in  the  face  of  absolute  foreknowl 
edge. 

If  we  would  become  acquainted  with  Colum 
bus,  let  us  not  begin  with  the  announcement, 
"Christopher  Columbus  discovered  America." 
That  is  twitting  on  facts.  It  suggests  Ply 
mouth  Rock  and  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill 
and  the  Monroe  Doctrine  and  all  the  things 
American  the  hardy  Genoese  seaman  knew 


AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD      25 

nothing  about.  He  was  not  intending  to  dis 
cover  America.  His  spirit  was  that  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  He  was  thinking  of  the  Holy 
Sepulcher  and  of  Cipango  and  the  Great  Khan. 
He  dreamed  a  dream  that  did  not  come  true, 
though  other  things  happened  which  in  the  ret 
rospect  seem  more  important  to  us. 

When  after  civil  commotions  a  government 
seeks  to  restore  order,  it  passes  an  act  of  oblivion. 
The  transgressions  of  the  past  are  wisely  treated 
as  non-existent,  and  the  rebels  of  yesterday  may 
go  about  without  fear.  To  restore  order  into 
any  period  of  history,  we  must  pass  an  act  of 
oblivion,  not  in  regard  to  the  past,  but  in  regard 
to  all  that  to  the  men  of  that  time  lay  in  the 
future. 

Only  then  do  all  sorts  of  interesting  facts 
come  out  of  hiding.  We  begin  to  do  justice  to 
the  endeavors  of  men  whom  we  may  have 
thought  of  as  foes  to  progress.  In  their  day, 
and  according  to  their  lights,  they  were  pro 
gressives. 

They  were  doing  something  necessary  and 
they  did  it  enthusiastically.  It  was  not  their 
fault  that  in  the  next  generation  the  progress 


26      AN  ABSENTEE  LANDLORD 

of  civilization  was  in  a  different  direction.  That 
was  the  work  of 

Reckoning  Time,  whose  millioned  accidents 
Creep  in  twixt  vows  to  change  decrees  of  kings," 
Tan  sacred  virtue,  blunt  the  sharpest  intents 
And  divert  strong  minds  to  course  of  altering  things. 

Amid  the  course  of  altering  things  it  is  pleas* 
ant  and  profitable  to  be  able  to  watch  the  human 
reactions,  not  only  of  strong  minds,  but  of 
average  minds.  And  when  we  come  back  to 
our  own  times,  we  may  be  able  to  watch  cur 
rent  events  with  more  equanimity. 

After  all,  the  test  of  a  vacation  is  the  renewed 
zest  with  which  we  take  up  our  work  on  our 
return.  The  person  who  lives  among  his  con 
temporaries  all  the  time  has  no  idea  how  inter 
esting  they  are.  They  appear  even  romantic 
after  a  short  trip  abroad. 

Of  course  we  must  take  up  our  responsi 
bilities  again.  Our  serious  business  with  our 
contemporaries  is  to  improve  their  morals 
and  their  manners.  But  before  we  begin  again 
to  improve  them,  we  may  enjoy  the  moment 
when  we  have  enough  freshness  of  vision  to 
see  them  as  they  are. 


PROTECTIVE  COLORING  IN 
EDUCATION 


NATURALISTS  have  long  noted  the  way 
in  which  various  animals  merge  themselves 
into  the  landscape  of  which  they  form  a  part.  It 
takes  sharp  eyes  to  distinguish  the  living  thing 
from  its  environment.  There  are  butterflies  that 
look  like  the  leaves  on  which  they  alight,  cater 
pillars  that  resemble  the  bark  of  the  tree  they 
infest.  The  polar  bear  is  a  part  of  the  snow-fields. 
Even  the  stripes  of  the  zebra,  which  make  him 
conspicuous  in  the  circus,  are  said  to  be  incon 
spicuous  when  seen  against  the  arid  landscape 
of  South  Africa. 

All  these  concealments  are  useful  in  the  strug 
gle  for  existence.  They  form  part  of  the  grand 
strategy  of  Nature.  The  creature  unable  to  stand 
in  the  open  against  its  enemies  seeks  to  escape 
their  prying  eyes.  It  tries  to  look  like  something 
else. 


28         PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

These  natural  hypocrisies  throw  light  on  hu 
man  conduct.  When  we  call  a  man  a  hypocrite, 
we  usually  assume  that  he  is  trying  to  imitate 
a  higher  order  of  being  than  that  to  which  he 
has  actually  attained.  In  this  we  perhaps  do  too 
much  credit  to  his  spiritual  ambition. 

The  hypocrisies  in  Nature  are  not  of  this  kind. 
The  creature  does  not  imitate  its  betters  but  its 
inferiors.  The  vegetable  imitates  the  mineral; 
the  animal  imitates  the  vegetable.  It  does  not 
parade  its  peculiar  talents,  but  modestly  slips 
back  in  the  scale  of  being.  It  likes  to  hide  in  the 
already  existing. 

The  naturalists  distinguish  between  protective 
coloring  of  animals  —  that  which  they  call  cryp 
tic  coloring  —  and  mimicry.  The  cryptic  color 
ing  aims  purely  at  concealment.  In  mimicry  the 
hunted  creature  finds  safety  in  its  resemblance  to 
some  other  creature  which  is  either  feared  or  dis 
liked  or  despised.  Thus,  a  worm  which  is  really 
good  to  eat  escapes  the  predatory  bird  by  look 
ing  like  a  worm  that  is  not  good  to  eat.  It  will 
ingly  sacrifices  its  reputation  for  gastronomic 
excellence  in  order  to  prolong  its  existence. 

Harmless,  good-natured  reptiles  wriggle  along 


IN  EDUCATION  29 

in  peace  because  they  superficially  resemble  ven 
omous  snakes  with  whom  interiorly  they  have 
nothing  in  common.  Any  one  who  has  made 
the  acquaintance  of  a  garden  toad  knows  that 
he  is  not  nearly  so  ugly  as  he  looks.  After  thou 
sands  of  years  of  precarious  living,  these  wise 
amphibians  have  learned  to  divest  themselves  of 
the  fatal  gift  of  beauty.  Doubtless  the  less  un 
prepossessing  attracted  the  attention  of  envious 
rivals  and  were  slain,  while  those  whom  none 
could  envy  survived. 

One  who  takes  a  sympathetic  view  of  the 
evolutionary  process  will  make  allowance  for 
the  many  worthy  creatures  who  conceal  their 
virtues  from  prudential  reasons.  They  are  like 
a  richly  freighted  merchantman  trying  to  avoid 
capture.  It  receives  a  coat  of  paint  to  match  the 
fog,  extinguishes  its  lights,  and  makes  a  run  to 
avoid  the  enemies'  cruisers. 

An  appreciation  of  the  ways  of  the  hunted 
would  save  the  ambitious  educator  from  many 
disappointments.  He  is  engaged  in  the  impart 
ing  of  knowledge,  the  holding-up  of  ideals,  the 
development  of  the  higher  faculties.  Being  hu 
man,  he  longs  to  see  the  results  of  his  labors. 


30         PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

What  becomes  of  the  embryo  scholars  and 
philosophers  and  social  reformers  when  they  be 
gin  to  shift  for  themselves  2 

Ah,  there  comes  the  bitter  disappointment. 
These  objects  of  tremulous  care,  the  moment 
they  are  released  from  tutelage,  seem  to  lose 
their  painfully  acquired  superiority.  Instead  of 
proudly  carrying  their  educational  advantages 
as  an  oriflamme  of  progress,  they  carefully  con 
ceal  them,  and  take  the  color  of  their  present 
world. 

The  enthusiastic  kindergartner  one  day  visits 
the  primary  school  to  see  how  her  little  gradu 
ates  are  following  the  ideals  she  has  imparted 
with  such  loving  care.  Little  George  Augustus 
was  the  paragon  of  the  kindergarten.  With 
wide-open  eyes  and  eager  ears  he  received  the 
sweet  parables  of  Nature,  and  with  nimble  fin 
gers  practiced  what  he  had  been  taught.  None 
in  the  kindergarten  so  docile  as  he.  To  him 
education  would  be  no  task.  With  his  heart  so 
early  attuned  to  its  harmonies  he  would  joyfully 
play  upon  it,  as  on  an  instrument  often  strings. 

But  alas.  In  the  public  school  little  George 
Augustus  does  not  stand  out  as  one  of  the  elect 


IN  EDUCATION  31 

infants.  The  multiplication  table  has  for  him  no 
spiritual  meaning,  and  against  its  literal  mean 
ing  he  hardens  his  heart.  His  realistic  mind  does 
not  in  the  least  mistake  work  for  play.  He  per 
ceives  instantly  and  resentfully  where  one  be 
gins  and  the  other  leaves  off.  His  attitude  is  that 
of  his  fellow  conspirators.  He  will  learn  his 
lesson  if  he  has  to,  but  he  will  not  encourage 
teacher  by  performing  any  work  of  superero 
gation. 

Has  the  kindergarten  failed  ?  Not  ultimately. 
The  effects  will  doubtless  reappear;  but  they 
are  now  in  hiding.  George  Augustus  is  wise  in 
his  generation.  Through  several  weeks  of  hard 
experience  in  his  new  environment  he  has  learned 
to  appear  as  one  of  the  unkindergartened.  His 
newly  acquired  manners  are  the  protective  col 
oring  which  enables  him  to  go  about  unmo 
lested. 

A  distinguished  physiologist  has  shown  by  a 
number  of  experiments  that  terror  and  hate  pro 
duce  the  same  physiological  reactions.  In  the 
one  case  the  instinct  is  to  get  away  from  the 
foe ;  in  the  other  it  is  to  get  at  him.  In  either 
case  there  is  a  demand  made  on  the  adrenal 


32         PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

glands,  which,  as  a  war  measure,  pour  adrenal 
ine  into  the  blood.  In  the  case  of  little  George 
Augustus,  the  sudden  increase  of  adrenaline 
which  makes  him  appear  so  truculent  is  pro 
duced,  not  by  hate  of  sound  learning,  but  by  a 
well-founded  fear.  He  is  panic-stricken  over  the 
possibility  of  being  called  "  Teacher's  Pet." 

I  have  in  mind  a  boy  who  was  early  taught 
to  love  to  go  to  Sunday  school  and  hear  the 
Sabbath  bell.  At  the  age  of  ten  he  suddenly 
informed  his  parents,  with  the  air  of  a  hardened 
offender,  that  he  intended  to  cut  Sunday  school 
regularly  once  a  month.  On  inquiry  it  appeared 
that  the  Superintendent  had  arranged  an  honor 
list  on  which  were  to  be  inscribed  the  names  of 
those  whose  attendance  for  a  month  had  been 
faultless. 

"  Dickey  says  he  got  caught  that  way  once." 
There  was  something  not  to  be  endured  in  the 
thought  of  standing  before  his  companions  as 
a  horrible  example  of  the  degrading  virtue  of 
punctuality. 

The  youth  who  passes  from  an  excellent  pre 
paratory  school  into  the  university  has  the  same 
experience.  He  has  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he 


IN  EDUCATION  33 

has  been  overeducated.  The  whole  of  the  fresh 
man  year  is  sometimes  spent  in  the  successful 
attempt  to  conceal  the  too  careful  training  he 
has  received.  Only  when  he  is  convinced  by  the 
College  Office  that  his  attainments  do  not  make 
him  conspicuous,  does  he  feel  that  he  may  safely 
continue  his  education. 

The  educator  who  would  keep  a  cheerful 
courage  up  must  be  something  of  a  detective. 
He  must  be  able  to  penetrate  the  disguises 
which  his  pupils  put  on  to  conceal  from  him  the 
result  of  his  labors  among  them.  He  must  re 
member  that  these  youthful  pilgrims  are  travel 
ing  through  an  unfriendly  world.  To  some  of 
them,  the  intellectual  life  is  an  uncanny  thing 
of  which  they  have  heard  in  the  classroom,  but 
of  which  they  are  suspicious.  It  appears  to  them 
as  the  field  of  psychical  research  does  to  the 
partially  convinced.  When  the  conditions  are 
right,  the  phenomena  appear.  But  when  they  go 
on  the  street  and  talk  with  the  uninitiated,  they 
mention  these  matters  with  a  tone  of  indiffer 
ence.  They  do  not  like  to  appear  too  credulous. 

Moreover,  these  young  people  are  conscious 
that  their  stay  in  the  seats  of  learning  is  but 


34         PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

temporary.  They  are  aware  that  the  subjects  in 
which  the  university  seeks  to  interest  them  are 
not  mentioned  in  the  good  society  which  they 
aspire  to  enter.  Were  they  to  acquire  any  unu 
sual  ideas,  they  fear  that  on  their  return  to  their 
native  Philistia  they  might  be  interned  as  alien 
enemies. 

Education  depends,  not  only  on  the  consent 
of  those  who  are  being  educated,  but  on  the 
consent  of  those  who  are  paying  the  bills.  The 
proud  father  is  willing  to  pay  roundly  for  an 
education  which  will  make  his  son  like  himself. 
It  is  hard  to  make  him  appreciate  an  education 
which  aims  to  produce  a  salutary  unlikeness. 

The  only  institutions  which  can  openly  avow 
their  real  ambitions  for  betterment  are  those 
which  are  endowed  and  supported  for  the  bene 
fit  of  confessedly  backward  races.  Carlisle  In 
stitute  for  the  Indians  does  not  profess  to  make 
its  students  like  their  fathers.  It  boldly  admits 
to  the  paternal  relatives  that  it  sees  room  for 
improvement.  The  student  is  not  to  go  back 
to  take  up  the  accustomed  life  in  the  wigwam. 
He  is  to  tear  down  the  wigwam  and  make  a  civi 
lized  home. 


IN  EDUCATION  35 

But  this  would  not  be  so  easy  if  the  school 
had  to  depend  for  its  support  on  the  Indian 
tribes  from  which  the  pupils  come.  Some  self- 
made  savage  of  the  old  school  would  declare 
that  he  would  have  no  flummery  fit  only  for 
molly-coddles.  In  the  interest  of  efficiency  he 
would  endow  a  chair  of  practical  scalping. 

The  Indian  school  is  like  a  system  of  water 
works  fed  from  a  remote  and  elevated  reservoir. 
All  one  has  to  do  is  to  turn  the  water  on  and 
let  it  flow  through  the  pipes.  But  the  institu 
tion  of  higher  education  for  the  more  favored 
classes  has  no  such  advantage.  It  is  like  the 
hydraulic  ram  placed  in  the  bed  of  the  running 
stream.  Most  of  the  water  that  runs  through  it 
escapes  downhill,  but  in  doing  so  sends  a  very 
slender  stream  far  above  its  natural  level. 
•  It  is  the  function  of  the  institution  of  higher 
learning  to  educate  the  public  that  supports  it 
up  to  the  point  of  appreciating  its  real  purpose. 
But  while  it  is  being  educated  up  to  this  point, 
will  the  public  support  it  ?  That  is  a  matter 
that  causes  anxious  thought. 

Athens  supported  a  numerous  body  of  soph 
ists  who  taught  what  the  Athenians  wanted  to 


3  6         PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

know.  Socrates  had  a  different  educational  ideal 
He  endeavored  to  teach  the  Athenians  that  they 
didn't  know  a  good  many  things  they  thought 
they  knew.  This  method  was  not  so  readily  ap 
preciated. 

Have  you  ever  heard  a  successful  business 
man  who  is  also  a  real  philanthropist  address  his 
fellow  business  men  in  regard  to  his  pet  projects? 
Does  he  confess  himself  as  of  the  tribe  of  Abou 
Ben  Adhem?  Not  at  all.  He  gloats  over  the 
fact  that,  whatever  else  he  may  be,  he  is  not  a 
philanthropist.  He  has  but  one  thought  in  his 
hard  head,  and  that  is,  "  Business  is  business." 
He  refers  admiringly  to  "  brass  tacks,"  and  de 
clares  that  whatsoever  is  not  brass  tacks  is  vanity. 
He  is  a  confirmed  money-getter,  and  despises 
anything  that  does  n't  pay. 

After  having  thus  allayed  suspicion,  he  un 
folds  his  plans.  He  has  shrewdly  outwitted  his 
employees  and  doubled  their  salaries,  by  which 
means  he  expects  to  treble  their  efficiency.  He 
intends  to  invest  this  unearned  increment  in 
various  schemes  for  public  health  and  recreation. 
By  investments  of  this  kind  he  will  make  the 
community  so  prosperous  and  optimistic  that 


IN  EDUCATION  37 

they  just  can't  help  buying  his  goods.  Yes,  sir, 
it  pays  in  dollars  and  cents  to  enlarge  one's  busi 
ness  in*this  way.  It  pays. 

All  this  is  protective  coloring.  In  his  heart 
the  public-spirited  hypocrite  knows  that  he  would 
do  these  things  whether  they  paid  or  not. 

The  phenomena  of  protective  coloring  are 
seen,  not  only  in  the  way  in  which  the  educational 
world  takes  on  the.color  of  the  business  or  social 
world  that  surrounds  it;  they  are  seen  in  the 
way  in  which  any  new  interest  hides  behind 
some  interest  or  discipline  that  has  already  been 
established.  The  new  idea  seldom  appears  in  its 
true  colors.  It  adopts  some  prudential  disguise. 

One  thing  which  prevents  the  full  realization 
of  the  ideal  of  liberal  culture  is  the  difficulty  of 
keeping  one  branch  of  study  from  interfering 
with  another.  Nowhere  is  it  more  true  that  one 
good  custom  will  corrupt  the  world.  With  all 
the  bewildering  variety  of  courses  the  student 
is  often  taught  only  one  way  of  using  his  mind. 
Usually  there  is  one  method  or  discipline  that 
exercises  an  autocratic  power.  Everything  must 
take  color  from  that. 


3  8         PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

There  was  a  time  when  Theology  was  the 
recognized  Queen  of  the  Sciences.  Education 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy.  Woe  unto  the 
teacher  of  youth  who  did  not  theologize— or 
seem  to  theologize. 

The  physical  sciences  had  to  walk  warily  and 
conceal  their  identity  from  the  prying  eyes  of  the 
ecclesiastical  police.  In  the  gardens  of  learn 
ing,  brute  facts  were  not  admitted  unless  held  in 
leash  by  some  sound  doctrine.  Science  pure  and 
simple  did  not  come  out  in  the  open  and  dis 
play  its  miscellaneous  assortment  of  undogmatic 
actualities.  A  man  could  hardly  be  a  professor 
of  such  things.  But  by  professing  to  be  some 
thing  else,  he  might  dispense  useful  knowledge 
of  selected  physical  facts. 

Paley's  "Natural  Theology"  contained  a  con 
siderable  amount  of  information  about  anat 
omy  and  physiology.  Its  initial  reference  to 
the  watch  might  furnish  a  text  for  one  inter 
ested  in  mechanics.  Priestley,  as  a  preacher 
and  theologian,  —  though  heterodox,  —  made 
valuable  discoveries  in  chemistry.  It  was  to  his 
credit  that  he  discovered  oxygen,  an  element  not 
easily  discoverable  in  meeting-houses.  But  the 


IN  EDUCATION  39 

contributions  to  science  were  incidental.  The 
approach  was  furtive.  By  indirections  they  found 
direction  out.  We  are  reminded  of  the  text  in  the 
Book  of  Judges :  "  In  the  days  of  Shamgar  the  son 
of  Anoth,  the  highways  were  deserted  and  the 
people  walked  in  byways."  The  timid  folk  who 
walked  in  these  scientific  byways  made  no  dis 
play  of  intellectual  wealth.  All  they  hoped  for 
was  to  escape  notice. 

They  were  fortunate  if  they  could  make  their 
favorite  studies  look  like  something  else.  In  the 
days  of  Hugh  Miller,  Geology  disguised  itself 
as  a  useful  commentary  on  the  first  chapters 
of  Genesis.  It  was  a  branch  of  Hermeneutics 
—  the  science  of  the  interpretation  of  texts.  If 
the  testimony  of  the  rocks  confirmed  the  texts 
— so  much  the  better  for  the  rocks. 

Tennyson  preserves  the  memory  of  the  situa 
tion  :  — 

Half  awake  I  heard 

The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps, 
Now  harping  on  the  Church  Commission, 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  Schism. 

The  scientific  man  had  not  only  to  suffer  many 
things  from  dogmatic  theologians,  but  he  was 
also  in  bondage  to  literary  taskmasters. 


40        PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

When  the  educational  world  was  ruled  by 
those  whose  interests  were  primarily  literary  and 
classical,  he  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  For  literary 
values  and  scientific  values  do  not  coincide. 
Literature  is  concerned  with  certain  proprieties 
and  congruities  and  dramatic  unities.  A  story 
need  not  be  literally  true,  but  it  must  be  well 
told.  An  idea,  to  be  received  in  good  society, 
must  be  clothed  and  in  its  right  mind. 

In  the  Dame  School  of  Literature,  facts  are 
not  received  simply  as  facts.  They  must  mind 
their  manners.  They  must  wipe  their  feet  on 
the  mat,  and  learn  how  to  come  into  the  room. 
If  they  do  not  come  in  properly,  the  Dame 
sends  them  out  to  try  it  again. 

There  is  something  pathetic  in  the  way  in 
which  the  scientifically  minded  tried  to  conform 
to  these  requirements  of  polite  learning.  In  the 
darkest  recesses  of  old  bookstores  you  will  find 
shelves  full  of  semi-scientific,  semi-sentimental 
volumes  published  in  the  early  nineteenth  cen 
tury.  They  are  intended  to  insinuate  knowledge 
of  the  physical  world  under  all  sorts  of  literary 
disguises.  The  theory  is  that  the  reader  will  not 
mind  fact  if  it  is  presented  as  if  it  were  not  a  fact. 


IN  EDUCATION  41 

Here  is  a  novel,  Alonzo  and  Melissa,  by  a 
long-forgotten  Connecticut  writer,  who  in  the 
preface  ventures  a  timid  hope  that  the  story 
may  serve  to  increase  our  knowledge  of  nature, 
while  at  the  same  time  pointing  a  useful  moral 
to  the  young. 

Alonzo  and  Melissa  are  making  love  as  they 
sit  on  the  shores  of  Long  Island  Sound.  As 
Alonzo  is  proposing  to  Melissa,  they  are  aware 
that  they  should  pay  attention  to  natural  phe 
nomena.  So  they  endeavor  to  cultivate  observa 
tion  and  improve  their  minds  in  this  fashion. 

Melissa.  "See  that  ship.  How  she  ploughs 
through  the  white  foam,  while  the  breeze  flut 
ters  the  sails,  varying  the  beams  of  the  sun." 

Alonzo.  "  Yes,  it  is  almost  down." 

Melissa.  "What  is  almost  down?" 

Alonzo.  "The  sun.  Was  not  you  speaking 
of  the  sun,  madam  ?  " 

Melissa.  "Your  mind  is  absent,  Alonzo.  I 
was  speaking  of  yonder  ship." 

Alonzo.  "  I  beg  pardon,  madam ;  oh,  yes,  the 
ship.  See  how  it  bounds  with  rapid  motion  over 
the  waves." 

In  some  such  absent-minded  fashion  did  the 


42         PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

Melissas  and  Alonzos  study  what  was  called 
natural  philosophy.  It  allowed  plenty  of  time 
in  which  to  think  of  something  else. 

It  is  interesting  to  remember  that  •  Charles 
Darwin  was  the  grandson  of  Dr.  Erasmus  Dar 
win,  who  was  also  a  man  of  scientific  attain 
ments.  But  when,  in  1789,  Dr.  Darwin  sought 
to  express  his  ideas  on  botany,  he  did  it  in  such 
a  way  as  not  to  alarm  the  Melissas  and  Alonzos. 
He  sought  to  introduce  botany  into  the  most 
select  circles  of  the  world  of  polite  learning  in 
an  elaborate  poem  called  "The  Loves  of  the 
Plants."  He  sought  to  insinuate  the  Linnsean 
system  through  the  romantic  adventures  of 
gnomes  and  sylphs  and  nereids  and  other  well- 
known  classical  characters.  More  detailed  bo 
tanical  information  was  given  in  the  notes. 

Miss  Anna  Seward,  known  as  the  "  Swan  of 
Lichfield,"  and  a  very  great  literary  lady  of  her 
day,  says  of  Dr.  Darwin's  poem :  "  The  genuine 
charm  of  his  muse  must  endure  as  long  as  the 
English  language  shall  exist.  Should  that  perish, 
translation  would  preserve  the  Botanic  Garden 
as  one  of  its  gems.  .  .  .  Can  anything  be  finer 
than  the  description  of  the  signs  of  the  zodiac  ? 


IN  EDUCATION  43 

Or  that  passage  describing  the  calcining  of  the 
phlogistic  ores  which  is  termed  the  marriage  of 
Ether  with  the  Mine?  The  passage  is  most 
poetic  though  purely  chemical." 

Miss  Seward  followed  with  unabated  admira 
tion  the  wooing  of  the  various  flowers,  under 
which  pleasant  disguise  the  most  abstruse  bo 
tanical  information  was  conveyed.  "  The  pictures 
of  the  various  flowers  arise  in  the  page  in  botanic 
discrimination,  and  all  the  hues  of  poetry."  In 
the  description  of  the  love-making  of  the  flax, 
Miss  Seward  says :  "  We  are  presented  with  the 
exactest  description,  not  only  of  the  growth  of 
flax,  but  the  weaving  of  linen.  Sir  Richard  Ark- 
wright's  apparatus  at  Matlock  is  described." 
Other  machinery  is  described.  "We  have  in 
sweet  versification  the  whole  process  of  this 
admirable  invention.  It  is  an  encouragement  to 
science  that  this  bard  throws  over  them  all  the 
splendid  robe  of  descriptive  poetry."  In  treat 
ing  the  transformation  of  the  vine  into  a  bac 
chanalian  female,  Dr.  Darwin  introduces  the 
subject  of  temperance.  Says  Miss  Seward,  "  The 
many  disorders  of  the  liver  caused  by  ebriety 
are  nobly  allegorized." 


44        PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

Not  only  the  more  romantic  flowers,  but 
vegetable  growths  of  lowlier  order  are  allego 
rized  nobly.  Miss  Seward  is  enraptured  by  a  de 
lightful  passage  about  truffles.  "  The  Truffle,  a 
well-known  fungus,  now  meets  our  attention  as 
a  fine  lady.  She  is  married  to  a  gnome  in  a  grand 
subterranean  palace,  soothed  by  the  music  of 
seolian  strings,  which  make  love  to  the  tender 
echoes  in  the  circumjacent  caves,  while  cupids 
hover  around  and  shake  celestial  day  from  their 
bright  lamps." 

In  such  disguises  did  the  grandfather  of 
Charles  Darwin  introduce  natural  science  to  the 
polite  world  of  his  generation. 

All  this  belongs  to  the  past.  The  physical 
sciences  have  won  their  place  in  the  sun.  Hav 
ing  won  their  independence,  they  now  aspire  to 
imperial  rule.  The  scientific  method  is  every 
where  being  rigidly  enforced. 

Our  sympathies  with  the  under-dog  lead  us  to 
inquire  into  the  state  of  the  older  forms  of  cul 
ture  which  are  now  passing  under  a  foreign 
yoke. 
^Literature,  philosophy,  rethics,  and   the  fine 


IN  EDUCATION  45 

arts  existed  in  prescientific  days,  and  flourished 
mightily.  Each  had  a  discipline  and  method  of 
its  own.  Each  gathered  about  itself  a  band  of 
votaries  who  loved  it  for  its  own  sake,  and  were 
satisfied  with  its  own  rewards. 

Time  was  when  the  philosopher  walked  in  a 
grove  with  a  group  of  eager  youths  who  shared 
his  curiosity  about  the  universe.  He  liked  to 
talk  with  them  about  the  whence  and  the 
whither  and  the  why  of  everything.  They  were 
frankly  speculative.  They  asked  questions  which 
they  were  well  aware  admitted  of  no  definite  and 
final  answer.  They  disputed  with  one  another  for 
the  sheer  joy  of  intellectual  conflict.  The  disputa 
tions  sharpened  their  wits,  but  they  "  got  no 
results."  In  fact  they  were  not  seeking  any  re 
sults  that  an  efficiency  expert  could  recognize. 
The  free  use  of  their  minds  was  joy  enough. 

Now,  it  is  evident  that  a  modern  university 
is  too  serious  a  place  for  much  of  this  sort  of 
thing.  Life  is  too  short,  and  business  is  business, 
and  time  is  money.  Youth  must  be  up  and  do 
ing,  and  not  lose  its  opportunities  by  meditat 
ing  overmuch  on  the  ultimate  reason  of  things. 

Still,  it  seems  to  me  that  in  the  most  efficient 


46         PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

university  there  ought  to  be  room  for  at  least 
one  philosopher,  and  he  should  not  be  compelled 
to  teach  philosophy  by  the  "  scientific  method." 
He  should  be  allowed  to  practice  the  philo 
sophic  method,  which  is  really  an  excellent 
one  for  its  own  purpose. 

There  is  something  a  little  pathetic  in  seeing 
a  real  philosopher  trying  to  teach  a  company 
of  busy  undergraduates,  who  have  never  learned 
to  meditate.  "May  we  not  say  of  the  philos 
opher,"  asks  Plato,  "  that  he  is  a  lover,  not  of  a 
part  of  wisdom,  but  of  the  whole  ?  " 

The  philosopher,  finding  himself  in  an  intel 
lectual  community  where  the  interests  are  highly 
specialized,  becomes  a  little  uneasy  and  self- 
conscious.  In  order  to  be  in  the  fashion  he  must 
appear  to  be  a  specialist  also.  And  so  he  fre 
quently  disguises  his  real  aim  by  a  critical  ap 
paratus  which  imposes  on  the  undiscerning.  It 
is  all  the  more  refreshing  when  we  come  across 
a  philosopher  who  is  interested  in  the  incom 
prehensible  universe,  and  who  does  n't  care  who 
knows  it. 

The  plight  of  the  teacher  of  literature  is  some 
what  different.  He  is  afraid  of  the  undue  popu- 


IN  EDUCATION  47 

larity  of  his  courses  among  the  less  industrious 
undergraduates.  He  bears  about  with  him  a 
secret  which  is  a  source  of  personal  joy,  but 
at  the  same  time  full  of  danger  to  the  uninitiated. 
It  must  be  carefully  guarded.  This  guilty  secret 
is  that  the  reading  of  good  books,  especially  if 
they  are  written  in  one's  native  language,  is  not 
hard  work,  but  is  in*reality  a  pleasant  pastime. 
The  masterpieces  of  literature  are  not  difficult 
reading  to  any  one  who  approaches  them  in  the 
right  spirit.  They  are  often  thrilling,  they  are 
sometimes  amusing,  and  they  are  usually  written 
in  such  a  style  that  their  meaning  is  easily 
grasped.  First-rate  books  are  written  in  a  more 
understandable  style  than  third-rate  books.  All 
this  the  teacher  of  literature  well  knows,  and  his 
secret  desire  is  to  lead  appreciative  youth  in  the 
paths  of  pleasantness  which  he  has  discovered. 

But  alas,  if  the  secret  were  known,  his  class 
rooms  would  be  invaded  by  a  host  of  young 
Philistines  in  search  of  easy  courses.  "Tell  it 
not  in  Gath,  publish  it  not  in  the  streets  of 
Askelon ! " 

The  pleasant  paths  must  be  obstructed  by 
barbed-wire  entanglements  borrowed  from  the 


48         PROTECTIVE  COLORING 

scientific  machine  shops.  Instead  of  an  invitation 
to  read  together  the  few  books  which  are  a  joy 
forever,  the  "required  reading"  leads  over  many 
a  long  and  rocky  road  chosen  because  it  fur 
nishes  a  good  endurance  test.  It  is  hoped  that 
the  idle  fellows  will  fall  by  the  wayside,  and  the 
grapes  of  Canaan  may  be  reserved  for  those  who 
have  crossed  the  forbidding  desert. 

Sometimes  the  teacher  of  literature  wonders 
whether  it  is  worth  while  to  keep  up  the  stern 
pretense.  Why  not  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  *? 
Reading  is  a  recreation  rather  than  an  enforced 
discipline.  Why  should  not  leisure  be  left  for 
such  recreation  even  in  the  strenuous  days  of 
youth  ?  The  habit  will  be  a  great  solace  in  later 
life. 

We  are  beginning  to  see  that  the  ideal  of  a 
liberal  education  is  too  large  to  be  put  into  four 
years  of  a  college  course.  It  is  the  growth  of  a 
lifetime  spent  in  contact  with  the  actual  world. 
But  it  is  not  too  much  to  ask  that  in  a  univer 
sity  the  student  should  be  brought  into  contact 
with  different  types  of  the  intellectual  life,  and 
that  each  type  should  be  kept  distinct.  He 


IN  EDUCATION  49 

should  learn  that  the  human  mind  is  a  marvelous 
instrument  and  that  it  may  be  used  in  more  than 
one  way. 

Variety  in  courses  of  study  is  less  important 
than  variety  and  individuality  of  mental  action. 
How  does  a  man  of  science  use  his  mind?  How 
does  an  artist  feel  ?  What  makes  a  man  a  jurist, 
a  man  of  business,  a  politician,  a  teacher?  How 
does  ethical  passion  manifest  itself?  What  is  the 
historical  sense? 

These  are  not  questions  to  be  answered  on 
examination  papers.   But  it  is  a  reasonable  hope 
that  a  young  man  in  the  formative  period  of  his 
life  may  learn  the  answers  through  personal  con- ' 
tacts. 


CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY  OF 
TEACHING:  EPAPHRODITUS  to  his  much- 
valued  Philosopher  and  Slave  EPICTETUS 


THE  gods,  Epictetus,  distribute  their  gifts 
as  they  will.  To  me  they  have  given, 
through  the  favor  of  the  divine  Nero,  freedom 
and  wealth.  On  thee  they  have  bestowed  an 
acute  understanding  and  a  fervent  love  of  wis 
dom.  These  are  the  more  excellent  gifts,  for 
which  thou  art  duly  thankful.  Had  I  been  en 
dowed  with  a  virtuous  disposition,  I  should  have 
practiced  those  virtues  which  I  have  been 
pleased  to  hear  thee  describe.  But  it  was  not  so 
decreed.  I  must  be  content'with  what  a  Christian 
slave,  quoting  from  the  scriptures  of  his  sect, 
calls  "  filthy  lucre." 

But  thou  hast  taught  me  that  everything 
should  be  taken  by  its  right  handle.  Grasping 
filthy  lucre,  with  no  unwilling  hands,  I  may 
make  it  serve  my  purpose.  If  I  cannot  be  a 


THE  LIBERTY  OF  TEACHING   51 

philosopher  —  a  state  far  above  my  poor  deserts 
—  I  can  at  least  own  one. 

Other  rich  men  invest  their  money  in  gladia 
tors,  or  charioteers,  or  dancing  women,  or  in  beau 
tiful  youths  who  attract  the  admiration  of  the  un 
thinking.  But  I  have  soberer  tastes.  It  is  my 
ambition  to  be  the  owner  of  a  veritable  philos 
opher,  one  who  devotes  himself  continually  to 
the  highest  themes.  When  thou  wert  a  mere  boy, 
I  recognized  thy  worth.  Here  is  one  who  has  in 
him  the  making  of  a  sage.  Give  him  but  good 
masters  and  leisure  to  grow  wise,  and  I  will 
match  him  against  any  thinker  in  Rome.  For 
this  end,  I  sent  thee  to  the  school  of  Musonius 
Rufus,  that  thou  mightest  learn  the  lore  of  the 
ancients.  In  my  household  I  have  given  thee 
every  opportunity  to  practice  frugality  and  all 
the  austere  virtues  of  the  Stoics,  for  I  would  train 
thee  to  be  a  winner  in  the  immortal  race.  Thou 
art  yet  young,  Epictetus,  but  thou  art  full  of 
promise. 

Two  thousand  years  from  now,  when  the 
Empire  of  the  Csesars  has  extended  beyond  the 
western  seas,  who  will  remember  the  heroes  of 
the  arena,  or  the  rich  men  who  supported  them  ? 


52     CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

But  in  that  far-off  day  men  will  speak  of  Epaph- 
roditus.  Was  he  not  the  lawful  owner  of  the 
great  Epictetus  *?  ^ 

Do  not  chide  me  for  linking  my  name  with 
thine.  I  know  that  the  desire  for  fame  is  some 
thing  unbefitting  a  philosopher.  But  I  am  not  a 
philosopher.  I  am  not  thyself.  I  am  only  thy 
proprietor.  Do  not  blame  me  for  this  vanity. 
It  is  in  accordance  with  my  nature.  Thou  know- 
est,  as  indeed  all  Rome  knows,  my  vices.  Do 
not  be  too  severe  with  this  my  imperfect  virtue. 

For  it  is  a  virtue,  Epictetus,  this  admiration 
for  thy  virtue.  Thou  knowest  how  highly  I 
value  thee.  I  would  not  sell  thee  for  the  price 
of  a  chariot  and  horses.  And  it  is  thy  virtues 
that  make  thee  of  such  value  to  me.  Often  at 
Nero's  banquets  I  contrast  thy  temperance  with 
my  luxury.  Thou  art  able  to  sleep  on  a  hard 
bed,  to  wear  coarse  clothing, 'to  eat  sparingly 
and  to  be  content.  How  much  better  that  is 
than  my  satiety !  How  altogether  admirable  is 
thy  way  of  life !  I  should  not  think  of  attempt 
ing  to  imitate  it.  It  is  inimitable. 

But  I  am  grieved,  Epictetus,  to  receive  from 
thee  a  letter  in  which  for  the  first  time  I  discern 


OF  TEACHING  53 

a  flaw  in  thy  philosophy.  Forgive  me  if  I,  who 
am  thy  inferior  in  such  high  matters,  call  atten 
tion  to  it.  For  the  first  time  thou  hast  shown  dis 
contentment  with  thy  lot.  Thou  sayest  that  the 
question  has  arisen  in  thy  mind  whether  a  teacher 
of  philosophy  should  be  a  slave.  What  will 
future  generations  say  to  a  civilization  in  which 
the  man  who  knows  submits  to  be  the  property 
of  the  man  who  furnishes  the  means  to  support 
his  bodily  existence?  And  will  not  people 
distrust  the  teachings  of  a  man  who  obeys  an 
other's  will  ?  What  would  Socrates  say  to  such 
a  relation? 

Ah,  Epictetus!  Are  not  such  questions  an 
swered  by  thy  philosophy  ?  There  are  things  in 
different.  What  does  it  matter  what  the  vulgar 
think  of  thee6?  Their  thoughts  cannot  harm 
thee.  And  what  of  Posterity*?  Posterity  will 
have  troubles  of  its  own,  and  doubtless  will  have 
invented  new  forms  of  servitude,  which  may 
make  our  system  of  slavery  appear  to  err  on  the 
side  of  too  much  freedom.  As  for  Socrates,  he 
doubtless  would  have  his  bitter  jibe.  But  he 
lived  in  a  tumultuous  little  city  where  liberty  was 
carried  to  excess,  and  not  in  a  great  "ordered 


54    CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

Empire  where  Caesar  gives  to  every  man  his  due. 
And  Socrates  would  have  lived  longer  if  he  had 
had  a  master  who  could  have  protected  him  from 
the  results  of  his  own  vagaries.  In  his  quiet  old 
age,  after  he  had  seen  the  folly  of  asking  so  many 
questions,  he  might  have  written  down  the  an 
swers  which  were  desirable.  Had  Socrates  been 
the  slave  of  Alcibiades,  he  might  have  lived  to  be 
his  own  Plato. 

Slavery  is  an  external  condition.  It  is  some 
thing  which  is  not  within  thy  power  to  change. 
Should  it  not  be  therefore  accepted  with  equa 
nimity?  I  myself  am  only  a  freedman,  but  I  am 
now  thy  master,  for  I  have  been  able,  through 
the  wealth  that  I  have  acquired,  to  buy  thee. 
Should  these  outward  things  be  allowed  to  fret 
thy  soul? 

Slavery  is  doubtless  degrading  to  one  who  is 
not  a  philosopher.  But  to  a  philosopher  it  offers 
many  opportunities  for  admirable  self-renuncia 
tion.  When  one  door  is  shut,  another  opens.  I 
shut  the  door  of  the  outer  liberty  against  thee. 
Thou  openest  the  door  of  the  inner  liberty,  so 
that  thou  mightest  enter  a  realm  into  which  I 
am  not  worthy  to  follow  thee.  This  certainly  is 


OF  TEACHING  55 

to  thy  advantage.  Does  not  freedom,  for  every 
one,  have  its  limits'?  The  soul  is  in  a  beautiful 
garden  walled  about  by  necessity.  If  it  were  not 
for  the  wall,  the  soul  would  wonder  abroad  and 
engage  in  futile  conflicts  with  reality.  If  we 
were  altogether  free,  we  should  act  and  not 
think.  But  Necessity  compels  us  to  think  in  or 
der  to  explain  why  we  do  not  achieve.  It  is  a 
salutary  experience.  We  attempt  to  do  a  good 
deed.  Nature  prevents.  Then  we  think  a  good 
thought  and  find  our  satisfaction  in  that.  Is  not 
that  the  birth  of  Philosophy? 

In  regard  to  the  business  of  life,  let  Epaphro- 
ditus  stand  to  thee  in  the  place  of  brute  Nature. 
He  shall  be  the  lower  limit  to  thy  activity.  Thy 
problem  is  to  be  as  free  as  it  is  possible  to  be 
while  yet  his  slave.  He  shall  prevent  thy  powers 
from  being  wasted  on  matters  unworthy  of  thee. 
In  all  that  concerns  thy  higher  life,  thou  shalt 
be  free.  When  thy  will  conflicts  with  the  will  of 
Epaphroditus,  thou  mayest  escape  by  a  sudden 
flight  into  the  upper  air.  He  will  watch  thy  fur 
thest  flight  into  pure  virtue  with  approval.  The 
further  the  better.  Do  not  interfere  with  him 
and  he  will  not  interfere  with  thee. 


56    CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

Thou  askest,  "Why  should  Epaphroditus 
wish  to  own  Epictetus  when  he  makes  so  little 
use  of  his  teachings  in  the  conduct  of  his  own 
life?" 

Ah,  Epictetus,  thou  little  knowest  what  it  is 
to  be  rich.  To  be  very  rich  is  to  possess  more 
than  one  can  use.  It  is  in  the  possession  and  not 
in  the  use  that  the  possibility  of  any  satisfaction 
comes.  The  man  who  has  one  horse  rides  it  and 
finds  enjoyment  in  the  exercise.  But  the  man 
who  has  a  thousand  horses  cannot  ride  them  all ; 
perhaps  he  does  not  even  see  them.  Such  joys 
he  leaves  to  those  whom  he  employs  for  the 
purpose. 

I  have  heard  thee  say  that  there  are  things 
that  money  cannot  buy.  I  know  that  this 
is  true.  We  poor  wretches,  who  have  nothing 
but  the  things  which  money  can  buy,  must  make 
the  most  of  our  poor  possessions.  While  we 
cannot  expect  the  finer  joys,  we  accept  the  grati 
fication  that  belongs  to  our  situation. 

To  practice  disinterested  virtue  is  a  privilege 
which  is  thine.  I  cannot  enter  into  it.  But  do  I 
not  clothe  thee,  feed  thee,  and  direct  thy  actions? 
In  this  sense  of  proprietorship  I  find  a  satisfaction 


OF  TEACHING  57 

which  is  a  compensation  for  my  own  lack  of 
participation  in  the  moral  life.  To  have  in  my 
own  household  a  model  of  perfect  virtue  is  a 
comfort  to  me,  which  I  cannot  explain.  I  am  not 
inclined  to  conform  to  the  model.  May  one 
not  do  what  he  will  with  his  own,  even  to  letting 
it  alone? 

Is  not  the  matter  reduced  to  this :  the  relation 
between  the  Wise  and  the  Prosperous?  Plato 
conceived  a  Republic  in  which  the  philosophers 
ruled.  The  truth-lover  was  allowed  to  play  the 
tyrant.  There  could  be  no  glad  worship  of  Pros 
perity  in  such  a  community.  Is  it  not  better  to 
allow  each  class  to  follow  its  own  nature  ?  Let 
the  wise  be  wise  and  let  the  prosperous  be  pros 
perous. 

Wherein  does  my  prosperity  interfere  with 
thy  wisdom?  Thou  art  able  to  draw  many 
lessons  from  my  conduct.  I  am  thy  helot  in 
whom  thou  canst  find  an  excellent  example  of 
the  evils  of  intemperance. 

Let  the  wise  practice  reciprocity  with  the 
prosperous.  It  is  a  mistake  to  say  that  we  ever 
prefer  falsehood  to  truth  or  delight  to  sur 
round  ourselves  with  insincere  flatterers.  We 


58     CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

prefer  truth  if  we  can  only  find  the  kind  that 
serves  our  ends.  Here  is  the  opportunity  for  the 
wise.  Let  them  cultivate  many  kinds  of  truth, 
so  as  to  have  something  pleasing  for  every  oc 
casion.  They  should  be  prepared  to  present  the 
truths  that  are  called  for.  When  Csesar  desires 
wine,  the  cup-bearer,  with  sure  instinct,  offers 
the  wine  that  most  accords  with  Csesar's  taste. 
It  is  not  wine  for  its  own  sake,  but  wine  for  the 
sake  of  the  imperial  palate,  that  is  demanded. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  man  with  a  thousand 
horses.  Since  I  have  owned  thee,  Epictetus,  I 
have  sometimes  dreamed  of  a  School  of  a  Thou 
sand  Sages.  Were  I  rich  enough,  I  would  bring 
together  the  truly  wise  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  so  that  they  should  advance  human  knowl 
edge  and  present  it  in  its  endless  variety.  I  would 
build  great  houses  for  my  learned  men  and  give 
them  ample  leisure  to  pursue  their  various  studies. 
Hither  should  the  youth  of  the  Empire  resort 
for  instruction. 

My  scholars  should  be  able  to  teach  all  that  is 
known  among  men.  In  the  great  school  there 
should  be  a  thousand  eager  minds,  and  a  sin 
gle  will.  Not  that  I  should  use  my  will  often. 


OF  TEACHING  59 

Only  it  should  be  a  power  in  reserve.  I  should 
know  it  was  there,  and  my  learned  men  should 
know  it  was  there,  and  wisely  avoid  a  conflict. 

Of  all  the  arts,  Epictetus,  Education  seems  to 
me  the  greatest,  and  the  one  that  should  be  in 
the  hands  of  the  ruling  class.  The  teacher  is  a 
sculptor  whose  statue  is  not  passive  under  his 
hand.  He  is  Pygmalion,  whose  masterpiece 
is  alive.  What  power  greater  than  to  pre 
pare  a  thought,  and  then  skillfully  prepare 
minds  who  will  think  that  thought?  The 
first  thinker  can  thus  multiply  his  thought 
indefinitely.  He  chooses  his  theme  and  his 
people  with  disciplined  mentality  follow  him 
through  all  the  mazes  of  prearranged  harmony. 
There  can  be  no  discord  between  theory  and 
practice  when  the  theory  has  been  made  to  fit  the 
practice.  When  wise  men  are  chosen  and  trained 
to  teach  that  which  is  expedient,  we  have  a 
human  cosmos,  a  beautiful  order.  What  one 
man  thinks  is  negligible,  but  a  million  minds 
thinking  rhythmically  are  irresistible. 

If  I  were  Caesar  —  which  it  is  blasphemy  for 
me  to  imagine  —  I  should  build  over  against 
my  Golden  House  a  Temple  of  Learning,  a 


60    CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

School  of  the  Thousand  Sages.  He  who  builds 
his  empire  on  Fear  rules  only  over  cowards. 
Some  day,  through  his  fostering  care,  his  sub 
jects  grow  strong  and  self-reliant  and  with  one 
voice  cry,  Who  is  afraid?  And  when  men  cease 
to  be  afraid,  the  Empire  falls. 

But  there  is  a  power  which  coerces  the  strong. 
It  is  the  power  of  Thought.  Men  will  go 
through  fire  and  water  for  an  opinion.  The 
ruler  who  would  reign  completely  must  gain 
control  of  men's  opinions,  and  form  them  to 
his  own  will. 

I  fear  Caesar  takes  too  little  account  of  this. 
Only  yesterday  in  the  Arena  I  saw  a  fanatic 
torn  to  pieces  because  he  held  the  opinion  that 
Csesar  is  not  divine.  A  word  or  a  gesture  would 
have  saved  him,  but  the  wretch  chose  to  die  in 
agony. 

When  the  spectacle  was  over,  Caesar  turned 
to  me  and  said,  "  Poor  fool,  he  might  be  alive 
and  merry  at  this  moment  had  he  but  under 
stood  that  I  care  not  a  fig  for  what  he  thinks, 
but  only  for  what  he  says." 

I  said,  as  was  my  duty,  that  the  godlike  Csesar 
spoke  with  sublime  wisdom.  But  within  myself 


OF  TEACHING  61 

I  doubted.  These  wretches  are  unafraid.  What 
if  their  opinion  should  spread  throughout  the 
Empire,  till  all  men  should  think  of  Caesar's 
power  as  a  baseless  superstition?  Would  Caesar 
be  supremely  powerful  if  men  did  not  think 
him  so  *? 

No,  the  Empire  must  be  supported  by  in 
telligence.  It  must  appeal  to  reason.  I  would 
have  a  Praetorian  Guard  of  the  learned  to  sup 
port  my  claims  to  the  homage  of  mankind. 
These  men  should  be  trained  to  think  together. 
Their  thoughts  should  form  a  solid  phalanx. 
When  they  move,  it  should  be  in  unison  and 
to  a  clearly  defined  object.  My  Empire  should 
be  to  them  the  Cosmos,  and  my  will  the  law  of 
Nature.  Beyond  it  should  be  only  the  realm  of 
Chaos  and  Night,  into  which  they  would  not 
think  of  intruding. 

Then  I  should  do  what  I  willed,  and  none 
should  ask  why,  because  my  sages  would  have 
anticipated  the  inquiry.  Men  would  be  taught  the 
correct  answers,  before  it  occurred  to  them  to  ask 
the  difficult  question.  They  would  have  shown 
that  it  was  not  willfulness  but  necessity  that 
caused  the  action :  Ceesar  being  what  he  is,  it  is 


62     CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

necessary  that  Caesar's  action  should  have  been 
what  it  has  been.  "When  my  sages  had  demon 
strated  that  this  is  so,  the  people  would  be  sat 
isfied.  For  man  is  a  rational  animal  and  loves 
to  have  a  reason  for  what  he  is  compelled 
to  do. 

This  is  my  dream  of  Education,  Epictetus, 
but  I  do  not  know  whether  it  can  be  realized. 
Before  it  can  be  realized,  there  must  be  a  great 
increase  in  the  sum  of  human  knowledge,  so 
that  this  sum  may  be  divided.  In  the  present 
state  of  erudition,  there  are  not  enough  topics  to 
keep  the  active  minds  of  my  sages  safely  occu 
pied.  They  would  always  be  harping  on  the 
few  simple  ideas  of  the  True,  the  Good,  and 
the  Beautiful.  They  might  apply  these  ideas, 
even  as  do  the  vulgar,  to  Caesar  himself,  to  whom, 
as  thou  knowest,  they  are  not  applicable. 

But  when  knowledge  has  vastly  increased,  it 
may  be  divided  skillfully,  so  that  each  sage  may 
have  some  little  portion  over  which  he  may  ex 
ercise  his  wits  for  a  lifetime,  and  not  mingle  his 
learning  with  any  element  dangerous  to  the 
Empire. 

Thou  knowest  how  the  four  elements  in  Na- 


OF  TEACHING  63 

ture  have  their  likes  and  dislikes.  The  water  in  a 
closed  receptacle  is  harmless.  But  when  fire  is 
applied  to  the  vessel,  the  water  is  enraged  and 
like  a  giant  bursts  its  bonds.  Knowing  this 
antipathy  between  the  Hot  and  the  Moist,  we 
learn  to  humor  them.  We  use  this  anger  of  the 
elements  to  cook  our  food. 

So  I  should  see  to  it  that  the  various  knowl 
edges  of  my  sages  were  kept  apart  till  I  chose  to 
bring  them  together  for  a  purpose  of  my  own. 
Their  minds  should  be  active  along  their  several 
lines,  and  I  should  draw  the  expedient  conclu 
sions.  In  this  way,  through  the  influence  of  the 
learned,  mankind  might  be  made  at  the  same 
time  more  intelligent  and  obedient. 

I  like  not  the  story  of  Alexander  and  Diog 
enes.  Had  Alexander  been  as  wise  as  he  was 
valiant,  he  would  not  have  asked  condescend 
ingly  what  he  could  do  for  a  philosopher,  and 
so  have  brought  on  himself  the  rude  retort  about 
getting  out  of  the  sunshine.  Had  he  been  a  more 
experienced  prince,  he  would  have  seated  him 
self  in  the  shadow  of  the  tub  and  begun  the  con 
versation  modestly. 

"  This  is  excellent  sunshine  of  thine,  Diogenes, 


64    CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

and  it  is  greatly  to  thy  credit  to  enjoy  it,  so  that 
there  is  need  of  nothing  beside  it  to  make  thee 
as  happy  as  thy  severe  philosophy  will  allow. 
I  come  to  ask  thy  help  in  matters  of  state. 
Couldst  thou  not  teach  my  new  subjects,  whom 
I  have  deprived  of  their  homes,  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  sunshine  which  kind  Nature  gives  to 
those  from  whom  military  necessity  has  taken 
all  else*?  Perhaps  when  they  have  learned  thy 
wisdom,  they  may  feel  that  my  coming  among 
them  has  been  for  the  best. 

"  I  was  about  to  say,  when  I  first  saw  thee 
sitting  in  the  sun,  that  if  I  were  not  Alexander 
I  would  be  Diogenes.  But  now  my  ambition 
grows  and  I  ask  myself,  why  not  be  both?  Alex 
ander  could  only  subjugate  the  world.  But  under 
Alexander-Diogenes  the  world  would  be  sub 
jugated  and  contented." 

Diogenes  would  not  be  asked  to  change  his 
manner  of  life.  But  as  Alexander's  man  his  vir 
tues  could  be  profitably  employed. 

I  have  written  thus  fully,  Epictetus,  because 
the  subject  is  one  of  great  importance.  Whether 
the  learned  should  be  held  as  slaves,  as  is  to 
some  extent  our  present  custom,  may  be  a  matter 


OF  TEACHING  65 

about  which  future  ages  may  hold  different 
opinions.  They  may  have  improved  methods  for 
producing  that  harmonious  subordination  of  the 
true  to  the  expedient  which  is  the  great  neces 
sity.  Even  now  there  are  those  who  think  it 
more  economical  to  hire  a  sage  than  to  own  him 
outright.  With  such  I  have  no  quarrel,  being 
content  to  hold  my  own  opinion  and  to  allow 
others  an  equal  liberty. 

But  the  all-important  thing  is  the  status  of  the 
thinker.  Shall  the  man  who  knows  be  encouraged 
to  tell  all  he  knows,  or  shall  his  utterance  be  con 
trolled  by  some  one  in  authority  over  him? 

If  the  thinker  is  all  the  time  uttering  his  own 
thoughts,  he  will  be  a  continual  annoyance.  He 
will  interfere  both  with  the  pleasure  and  the 
profit  of  those  whose  right  to  happiness  is 
equal  to  his  own.  There  will  never  be  an  equi 
librium  in  a  society  so  organized.  No  sooner 
has  a  plan  begun  to  work  profitably  than 
some  one  thinks  of  an  improvement  upon  it. 
No  sooner  have  men  begun  to  accept  an  exist 
ing  condition  than  some  one  points  a  way  out. 
Thus  new  experiments  will  always  be  tried  by 
restless  spirits. 


66     CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

It  is  necessary,  then,  that  intellectual  force 
should  be  controlled  in  the  interest  of  those  who 
have  shown  their  ability  to  rule  by  actually  rul 
ing,  and  their  fitness  to  prosper  by  actually 
prospering. 

Let  one  thing  be  made  clear.  It  is  not 
thought  that  we  object  to;  it  is  only  the  too 
specific  application  of  thought.  One  may  admire 
the  lightning  playing  among  the  clouds  and  yet 
cry  out  when  the  bolt  strikes  his  own  house. 
Cannot  wisdom  flash  among  the  clouds,  without 
destroying  the  cheerful  house  of  Folly*?  It 
should  be  taught  to  keep  its  place. 

As  for  thee,  Epictetus,  I  glory  in  the  working 
of  thy  clear  mind.  Think  deeply,  think  loftily, 
but  do  not  disturb  the  business  or  the  pleasures 
of  thy  moral  inferiors.  I  am  thy  moral  inferior, 
I  humbly  acknowledge  it.  But  I  am  thy  legal 
master,  and  I  bid  thee  not  to  disturb  me. 

Thou  wert  born  to  be  the  ornament  of  thy 
age.  Thou  hast  a  lofty  soul.  Meddle  not,  then, 
with  things  too  low  for  thee. 

Peace  be  with  thee,  Epictetus,  and  good 
sense.  And  let  me  hear  no  more  complaints  of 
slavery. 


OF  TEACHING  67 

Epictetus  the  Slave  to  bis  legal  owner  Epapkroditus 

Whether  slavery,  Epaphroditus,  should  be, 
to  a  philosopher,  a  matter  of  indifference,  like 
heat  or  cold,  pain  and  penury,  and  the  calumny 
of  the  vulgar,  is  a  question  to  which,  in  spite 
of  your  admonition,  I  must  return.  So  far  as  I 
am  merely  a  philosopher,  your  arguments  have 
weight.  I  can  school  myself  to  endure  the  in 
convenience  of  the  outward  state,  while  I  re 
treat  into  the  inner  sanctuary  where  thought  is 
free. 

But  you  have  imposed  upon  me  another 
duty.  Your  ambition  is  that  I  should  not  only 
possess  my  soul  in  patience,  but  that  I  also 
should  teach  the  nature  of  that  virtue  which  be 
fits  free  men.  If  I  should  teach  only  the  servile 
virtues,  I  should  lose  all  value  in  your  eyes. 
You  would  throw  me  on  the  market  for  what  I 
might  fetch  while  you  invested  in  more  valu 
able  human  property. 

The  question  comes  to  this,  Is  it  possible  for 
a  man  to  be  a  slave  and  at  the  same  time  be  a 
faithful  teacher  of  the  truth  *?  Before  we  answer 
this  question,  we  must  consider  the  nature  of 


68     CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

truth.  Can  you,  Epaphroditus,  with  all  your 
wealth  buy  the  truth,  and  show  a  clear  title 
to  it?  If  so,  you,  having  a  superfluity  of  this 
commodity,  may  send  me  to  sell  some  of  it 
in  the  open  market. 

I  go  to  the  market  and  cry:  "  Here  am  I,  Epic- 
tetus,  the  slave  of  Epaphroditus,  and  I  will  sell 
you  some  of  my  master's  truth.  It  is  the  truth 
he  lives  by,  and  he  is  willing  to  sell  it  cheap." 
Will  not  the  free-born  youths  laugh  as  they 
bargain  with  me,  "  There  are  the  cast-off  moral 
garments  of  Nero's  courtier  Epaphroditus.  Truly 
they  seem  little  the  worse  for  wear.  But  how 
did  this  slave  come  into  the  possession  of  so 
much  truth  ?  It  looks  suspicious.  Perhaps  he  is 
only  the  receiver  of  stolen  goods." 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  teach  the  truth  in 
that  way.  No  one  will  receive  it.  People  are 
willing  to  receive  the  gold  of  Epaphroditus,  but 
not  his  truth.  Not  all  my  skill  in  argument 
would  make  them  believe  it  genuine. 

The  truth,  Epaphroditus,  is  not  a  commodity 
that  can  thus  be  bought  and  sold ;  it  can  only 
be  seen  and  obeyed.  And  it  can  only  be  seen 
and  obeyed  by  free  men.  And  when  it  is  obeyed, 


OF  TEACHING  69 

it  must  be  obeyed  unto  the  uttermost.  It  toler 
ates  no  other  master.  You  ask  me  to  teach  in 
such  a  way  as  not  to  interfere  with  your  chosen 
way  of  life  or  with  the  society  of  which  you  are 
a  part.  How  can  I  do  this  and  still  be  a  teacher? 
I  might  keep  a  true  thought  a  close  prisoner  in 
my  own  mind.  But  the  teacher  does  not  hold 
his  thought ;  he  releases  it.  It  straightway  flies  to 
another  mind  and  urges  it  to  action.  How  can 
you  expect  your  lame  slave  to  follow  his  freed 
thoughts  that  now  have  entered  into  minds 
more  enterprising  and  courageous  than  his  own*? 
If  I  teach  justice,  how  can  I  prevent  some  quick 
witted  young  man  from  doing  a  just  deed  that 
may  disturb  the  business  of  my  master? 

Should  I  teach  what  to  my  own  mind  seems 
false,  you  would  then  hear  it  said,  "Epaphro- 
ditus  has  been  fooled.  His  moral  philosopher  on 
whom  he  set  so  high  a  price  has  proved  to  be 
a  vulgar  fraud." 

You  ask  me  to  teach  truth,  but  to  beware  of 
making  specific  applications  of  it.  It  is  as  if  you 
had  commanded  one  to  strike  a  light,  but  to 
prevent  it  from  shining.  It  is  the  nature  of  the 
light  to  shine,  and  we  can  do  nothing  against 


yo    CONCERNING  THE  LIBERTY 

nature.  I  do  not  need  to  point  out  applications 
of  truth.  Those  who  hear  apply  it. 

When  ardent  youths  come  to  me  and  I  say 
to  them,  "Resist  the  doer  of  an  unrighteous 
deed,"  how  can  I  prevent  some  of  the  more 
intelligent  and  headstrong  from  saying,  "  He 
means  that  we  should  resist  Epaphroditus"? 

How  can  I  hinder  such  dangerous  applica 
tion  of  my  doctrine  *? 

You  ask  me  to  teach  the  difference  between 
the  just  and  the  unjust.  Then  I  must  be  allowed 
freedom  to  point  out  the  living  examples  of 
each. 

Suppose  that  I  were  your  charioteer  and  you 
should  say,  "  Epictetus,  drive  me  swiftly  through 
the  crowded  streets  to  the  Forum,  and  then  out 
along  the  Appian  Way  to  the  sixth  milestone, 
and  returning  to  the  city,  take  me  to  the  Circus 
Maximus.  In  order  that  you  may  obey  me  im 
plicitly  I  will  blind  your  eyes." 

I  should  answer,  with  as  much  respect  as  was 
possible :  "  My  master,  were  you  the  charioteer 
and  were  you  carrying  me  through  the  streets,  I 
should  submit  to  be  blindfolded  without  a  mur 
mur.  But  if  I  am  to  be  the  charioteer,  I  must 


OF  TEACHING  71 

ask  to  be  allowed  to  use  my  own  eyes.  I  ask 
this  free  use  of  my  own  faculties,  not  for  my 
own  sake,  but  for  your  sake  and  the  chariot's." 
The  teacher  is  the  charioteer  along  the  crowded 
ways  where  Truth  and  Falsehood  jostle.  He 
must  be  able  to  see  and  choose  the  right  way. 
This  is  a  freeman's  work  and  to  entrust  it  to  a 
slave  is  to  invite  disaster.  Therefore,  Epaphro- 
ditus,  if  you  determine  that  I  am  to  remain 
your  slave,  give  me  a  task  which  a  slave  can 
properly  perform. 


THE  CHARM  OF  SEVENTEENTH- 
CENTURY   PKOSE 


PROSE  is  what  all  of  us  write  when  we 
are  able  to  write  nothing  else.  Poetry  has 
charm,  at  least  in  the  mind  of  the  poet,  or  he 
would  not  write  it.  But  Prose  is  the  Cinderella 
of  literature  and  must  mind  the  pots  and  kettles 
while  her  proud  sisters  go  to  the  ball. 

But  now  and  then  the  Fairy  Godmother  ap 
pears,  and  Cinderella  has  her  fling.  She  has  for 
a  little  time,  "  beauty  for  ashes,  the  garment  of 
praise  for  the  spirit  of  heaviness."  Just  as  there 
are  periods  when  genius  expresses  itself  in  a 
lyric  or  dramatic  form,  so  there  are  periods 
when  it  expresses  itself  in  narrative  or  even 
didactic  prose. 

The  sixteenth  century  was  an  age  favorable 
to  poetry.  Its  spirit  was  one  of  romantic  expec 
tation.  All  sorts  of  dazzling  possibilities  opened 
up  to  the  excited  imagination.  Men  found  the 
ordinary  speech  inadequate. 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         73 

Stout  Sir  Thomas  Stuckley  of  Ilfracombe, 
when  he  talked  with  Queen  Elizabeth  about  his 
plantation  in  Florida,  began  to  rhapsodize.  He 
would  not  exchange  his  prospects  in  Florida 
for  anything  that  could  be  offered  him  in  the 
courts  of  Europe. 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  Queen,  "  I  may  hear 
from  you  when  you  are  seated  in  your  princi 
pality." 

"  I  will  write  unto  you,"  quoth  Stuckley. 

"  In  what  language  *?  "  said  the  Queen. 

"  In  the  language  of  princes,"  said  Stuckley: 
"  To  our  dear  sister." 

When  merchant  adventurers  adopted  the 
language  of  princes,  they  would  prefer  the 
"  Faerie  Queene "  to  any  prosaic  textbook  on 
Ethics.  There  was  the  exhilaration  which  comes 
when  great  revolutionary  ideas  are  in  the  air, 
which  have  not  yet  been  reduced  to  inconven 
ient  action.  Young  men  dreamed  dreams  and 
old  men  saw  visions,  and  left  the  next  genera 
tion  to  pay  the  bills. 

When  the  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
had  passed  into  history,  the  bills  for  the  six 
teenth-century  improvements  in  Civilization 


74  THE  CHARM  OF 

became  due.  The  theory  of  civil  and  religious 
liberty  had  been  adopted,  but  now  the  practical 
consequences  must  be  considered.  Who  was  to 
pay  for  the  new  freedom? 

Now,  when  men  begin  to  talk  about  ways 
and  means  to  make  both  ends  meet,  they  are 
more  apt  to  use  prose  than  poetry.  They  are 
likely  also  to  lose  their  tempers.  After  the  tri 
umph  of  Protestantism  in  England  there  came 
the  period  of  internal  strife  —  Parliament  against 
the  King,  Churchman  against  Puritan,  and  every 
one  against  that "  world-hating  and  world-hated 
beast  the  haggard  Anabaptist."  Law-abiding 
citizens  were  appalled  at  the  new  broods  of 
anarchists.  Whether  they  were  called  Ranters, 
or  Quakers,  or  Root-and-Branch  men,  or  Fifth 
Monarchy  men,  they  pestered  quiet  people, 
and  interfered  with  business.  They  perpetuated 
the  social  unrest.  There  's  one  phrase  that  con 
tinually  occurs  —  "these  are  distracted  times." 

To  persons  of  a  quiet  habit  it  seemed  to  mark 
the  breaking-up  of  Civilization.  Churches  were 
ruined,  property  rights  ignored,  clergy  deprived 
of  their  livings,  the  hereditary  aristocracy  de 
graded  from  its  place  of  power,  the  Constitution 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         75 

overthrown,  and  at  last  the  anointed  King  tried 
and  executed  as  a  common  traitor. 

And  yet  it  was  in  this  period  of  bitter  civil 
war  that  we  have  one  of  the  flowering  times  of 
English  literature.  And  what  is  more  remark 
able  is,  that  it  is  to  this  period  of  strife  that  we 
go  back  to  find  health  and  a  sense  of  leisure.  It 
was  the  age  of  George  Herbert  and  Izaak  Wal 
ton,  of  Thomas  Fuller,  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  of 
John  Milton,  of  Clarendon  and  John  Bunyan. 

If  I  were  to  indicate  the  chief  characteristic 
of  these  men  I  should  say  that  it  was  their  abil 
ity  to  give  an  uncommon  expression  to  com 
mon  sense.  Now,  while  in  practical  life  com 
mon  sense  is  looked  upon  as  a  virtue,  in  the 
arts  it  is  often  considered  to  be  the  sum  of  all 
villainies.  For  it  is  taken  as  but  another  name 
for  the  irremediably  commonplace. 

Horace  Walpole  tells  us  how  one  day  he  met 
Hogarth  who  insisted  on  talking  at  great  length 
on  his  history  of  English  painting.  "  The  rea 
son,"  said  Hogarth,  "  why  we  English  do  not 
paint  better  is  because  we  have  too  much 
common  sense."  It  was  before  the  Cubists  had 
shown  to  what  heights  painting  could  rise  when 


76  THE  CHARM  OF 

the  inhibitions  of  common  sense  were  com 
pletely  removed. 

But  the  criticism  was  suggestive.  Poetry  suf 
fers  from  too  much  common  sense.  Its  wings 
are  clipped  and  it  cannot  soar.  Music  is  of  the 
same  nature.  Grand  opera  would  be  impossible 
if  the  tenor  in  expressing  his  affection  for  his 
ladylove  took  counsel  of  his  common  sense. 
But  prose  does  not  need  to  soar.  It  is  pedes 
trian  in  its  habit.  It  is  at  its  best  with  its  feet 
on  the  solid  earth.  But  with  his  feet  upon  the 
ground  a  man  may  shuffle  along,  or  limp  and 
totter,  or  he  may  dawdle  on  the  path  or  walk 
mincingly  till  we  lose  all  interest  in  his  uncer 
tain  progression.  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  he  may 
walk  with  a  firm,  confident  stride,  as  one  who 
knows  where  he  is  going  and  who  enjoys  the 
wholesome  exercise.  Such  a  pedestrian  would 
not  exchange  a  stout  pair  of  legs  for  any  ordi 
nary  kind  of  wings.  And  there  is  a  prose  which 
for  power  to  stir  us  is  surpassed  only  by  the 
rarest  kind  of  poetry. 

The  characteristic  of  the  great  prose-writers 
of  the  seventeenth  century  was  huge,  heroic  com 
mon  sense.  It  was  the  common  sense  of  middle- 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         77 

aged  gentlemen,  not  in  slippered  ease,  but  in 
fighting  trim,  and  carrying  the  very  least  amount 
of  adipose  tissue. 

Usually  common  sense  arrives  at  that  period 
when  the  spirit  of  adventure  is  dead.  It  takes 
the  form  of  good-humored  cynicism.  The  pru 
dential  virtues  are  treated  as  a  residuum  after 
the  tumults  of  youth  have  subsided.  So  in  the 
gulches  of  the  Far  West,  below  some  old  min 
ing  camp  where  the  gambling  spirit  once  ran 
high,  you  may  see  the  patient,  unemotional 
Chinaman  working  over  the  tailings.  He  gets 
a  sufficient  living  out  of  what  in  the  wasteful 
days  had  been  allowed  to  run  through  the 
sluices. 

There  is  another  kind  of  prudence.  It  is  ac 
tive,  not  passive.  It  is  forward-looking,  not  rem 
iniscent.  It  is  a  practitioner  of  preventive  med 
icine  for  the  body  politic. 

Think  not  that  Prudence  dwells  in  dark  abodes ; 
She  scans  the  Future  with  the  eye  of  gods. 

The  ideal  is  that  of  one  who,  in  Miltonic  phrase, 
is  "  a  skillful  considerer  of  human  things." 

Amid  the  tumults  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
there  arose  an  unusual  number  of  skillful  con- 


78  THE  CHARM  OF 

siderers  of  human  things.  Some  of  them  were 
radicals,  some  of  them  conservatives.  Some 
fought  for  the  King  and  some  for  the  Parlia 
ment,  but  they  had  certain  qualities  in  common. 
Theirs  was  the  large  utterance  of  men  who  were 
dealing  with  big  questions.  They  had  no  time 
for  hair-splitting;  there  was  a  manly  grasp  of 
principles,  and  acceptance  of  responsibilities,  as 
of  those  to  whom  words  and  deeds  corresponded. 
They  were  all  the  time  dealing  with  conduct. 
Men  took  up  the  pen  as  they  would  take  up  the 
sword,  for  a  worthy  cause.  How  far  from  the 
temper  which  we  are  accustomed  to  call  liter 
ary  is  Milton's  description  of  the  way  in  which 
a  man  fits  himself  for  authorship :  "  When 
a  man  writes  to  the  world,  he  summons 
up  all  his  reason  and  deliberation  to  assist 
him,  he  searches,  meditates,  is  industrious  and 
likely  consults  and  confers  with  his  judicious 
friends,  after  all  which  done  he  takes  himself  to 
be  informed  in  what  he  writes,  as  well  as  any 
that  writ  before  him."  This  is  "  the  most  con 
summate  act  of  his  fidelity  and  ripeness." 

In  that  age  of  exuberant  pamphleting,  not  all 
that  was  written  and  printed  would  stand  that 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE          79 

test — certainly  not  all  of  Milton's  tracts  for  the 
times.  But  out  of  the  'mass  of  passionate  and 
even  scurrilous  invective  there  emerges  a  re 
markable  literature,  in  which  common  sense  is 
transfigured  and  appears  as  something  romantic. 
Milton  has  it,  so  has  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  so  has 
John  Bunyan.  You  feel  that  you  are  in  the 
presence  of  persons  who  have  the  valor  not  of 
ignorance  but  of  experience. 

How  characteristic  is  Jeremy  Taylor's  praise 
of  manly  virtue  :  "  Our  virtues  are  but  the  seed 
when  the  Grace  of  God  comes  upon  us  first,  but 
this  grace  must  be  thrown  into  broken  furrows, 
and  must  twice  feel  the  cold  and  twice  feel  the 
heat,  and  be  softened  with  storms  and  showers, 
and  then  it  will  arise  into  fruitfulness  and  har 
vests.  .  .  .  Fathers  because  they  design  to  have 
their  children  wise  and  valiant,  apt  for  counsel 
or  for  arms,  send  them  to  severe  governments 
and  tie  them  to  study,  to  hard  labor.  They 
rejoice  when  the  bold  boy  strikes  a  lion  with 
his  hunting  spear,  and  shrinks  not  when  the 
beast  comes  to^affright  his  early  courage.  Soft 
ness  is  for  slaves,  for  minstrels,  for  useless  per 
sons,  for  the  fair  ox.  But  the  man  that  designs 


80  THE  CHARM  OF 

his  son  for  noble  employments  loves  to  see  him 
pale  with  study,  or  panting  with  labor,  hard 
ened  with  sufferance,  or  eminent  by  dangers. 
And  so  God  dresses  us  for  Heaven." 

The  same  appeal  to  disciplined  courage 
which  is  the  note  in  England  is  felt  in  New 
England.  A  great  part  of  the  fame  of  the  Ply 
mouth  and  Massachusetts  Bay  colonists  comes 
from  the  fact  that  they  were  their  own  historians 
and  realized  the  ideal  significance  of  their  own 
doings.  No  orator  on  Forefathers*  Day  can  do 
better  than  take  his  text  from  some  great  utter 
ance  of  Governor  Bradford :  "They  had  a  great 
hope  and  inward  zeal  of  laying  some  good  foun 
dation."  The  whole  story  of  the  men  of  the 
Mayflower,  their  inner  and  their  outward  lives, 
is  in  that  pregnant  sentence.  We  read  it  as  Holy 
Writ,  and  the  History  of  Freedom  in  America 
is  the  commentary. 

Or  we  linger  over  that  other  text,  which  fol 
lows  the  list  of  discouragements  to  the  new  un 
dertakings  :  "  It  was  answered  that  all  great  and 
honorable  actions  are  accompanied  with  great 
difficulties  and  must  be  both  enterprised  and 
overcome  by  answerable  courages." 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         81 

Even  in  the  narrative  of  the  most  ordinary 
event  there  is  an  arresting  quality.  Governor 
Winthrop  had  been  guilty  of  the  indiscretion 
of  moving  his  house  from  Cambridge ;  for  this 
he  was  called  to  account  by  the  fiery  Dudley. 
But  how  admirable  is  the  description  of  the 
quarrel  that  ensued :  "  The  deputy  began  to  be 
in  a  passion  and  told  the  Governor  that  if  he 
were  so  round,  he  would  be  round  also.  So  the 
deputy  rose  in  a  great  fury  and  passion,  and  the 
Governor  grew  very  hot  also.  And  they  both 
fell  into  a  fury  of  bitterness.  But  by  the  medi 
ation  of  the  mediators  they  were  soon  pacified. 
...  So  the  meeting  breaking  up  without  any 
other  consideration  but  the  commending  of  the 
success  of  it  by  prayer  to  the  Lord,  the  Gov 
ernor  brought  the  deputy  onward  of  his  way, 
and  every  man  went  to  his  own  home." 

That  is  only  a  straightforward  narrative  of 
one  of  the  commonest  incidents  of  local  politics. 
Yet  it  is  told  in  such  a  way  that  it  is  invested 
with  an  atmosphere  of  moral  dignity.  They  were 
angry  and  sinned  not,  —  at  least  they  did  not  sin 
against  the  canons  of  good  literature. 

There  was  a  peculiar  flavor  to  the  speech  of 


82  THE  CHARM  OF 

the  men  of  that  period  which  we  recognize  in 
their  most  casual  talk.  We  listen  to  the  remark 
of  King  James  I  at  a  dinner  table :  "  He  must 
have  been  a  very  valiant  man  who  first  adven 
tured  upon  the  eating  of  an  oyster."  We  have 
all  had  that  thought,  but  we  could  not  express 
it  in  that  way. 

The  fact  is  that  the  men  of  that  generation  had 
a  great  advantage  over  us  in  the  material  with 
which  they  worked.  The  builder  in  concrete  con 
struction  is  careful  in  his  specifications  to  de 
mand  not  only  a  good  quality  of  Portland  cement 
but  also  a  sufficiency  of  sharp  sand.  Not  only 
must  there  be  something  that  binds,  but  there 
must  be  material  that  can  be  bound. 

So  in  our  speech.  There  is  a  fluency  not  to 
say  fluidity  in  our  present  language  which  makes 
for  easy  writing  but  does  not  produce  structural 
strength.  The  sentence  is  flowing  or  at  best  a 
sticky  mass  that  does  not  "set."  The  words 
themselves  are  not  clean  and  sharp.  They  have 
no  edge.  Words  that  have  been  used  in  so  many 
senses  that  their  original  significance  has  been 
forgotten  come  at  length  to  form  only  a  verbal 
quicksand. 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         83 

The  older  writers  had  at  their  command  an 
abundance  of  clean,  sharp  words.  It  mattered 
little  whether  the  words  were  Anglo-Saxon  or 
Latin  in  their  origin.  The  important  thing  was 
that  their  primary  meanings  were  in  the  minds 
of  both  speakers  and  listeners.  The  word  and 
the  thing  had  not  only  analogy  but  an  identity. 
It  was  said  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  "  He  seemed 
to  be  born  to  be  that  only  which  he  went 
about."  When  such  men  spoke,  their  ^  words 
fitted  their  mood.  Their  utterance  was  indi 
vidual,  as  much  their  own  as  their  sword 
thrusts. 

Let  us  compare  two  forms  of  speech.  Here 
is  a  sentence  from  a  recent  novel :  "  As  he  went 
downstairs  he  halted  at  the  landing,  his  hand 
going  to  his  forehead,  a  reflex  motion  significant 
of  a  final  attempt  to  achieve  the  hitherto  unat 
tainable  feat  of  imagining  her  to  be  his  wife." 
There  is  something  of  self-conscious  modernity 
in  this  sentence.  The  accepted  lover  is  a  bundle 
of  hesitancies.  In  the  attempt  to  psychologize 
over  his  emotions,  we  are  in  doubt  whether  he 
will  get  downstairs  or  not;  we  certainly  do  not 
see  him  do  it.  There  is  nothing  suggested  but 


84  THE  CHARM  OF 

a  series  of  reflex  actions  which  will  in  all  human 
probability  come  to  nothing. 

Now  turn  to  Izaak  Walton:  "My  honest 
scholar,  it  is  now  past  five  of  the  clock.  We 
will  fish  till  nine  and  then  go  to  breakfast.  Go 
you  to  yonder  sycamore  tree  and  hide  your 
bottle  of  drink  under  the  hollow  root  of  it,  for 
about  that  time  and  in  that  place  we  will  make 
a  brave  breakfast  with  a  piece  of  powdered 
beef  and  a  radish  or  two,  which  I  have  in  my 
fish  bag.  We  shall,  I  warrant  you,  make  a 
good,  honest,  wholesome,  hungry  breakfast. 
And  I  will  then  give  you  direction  for  the  mak 
ing  and  using  of  your  flies." 

What  is  the  difference  *?  There  is  a  difference 
not  only  in  the  arrangement  of  the  sentences, 
but  in  the  nature  of  the  words.  In  one  case  the 
words  are  listless  and  indifferent.  They  look  as 
if  they  had  been  up  late  at  night  and  had  lost  in 
terest  in  life.  They  are  self-conscious,  as  if  they 
had  just  come  out  of  the  psychology  book  and 
were  sorry  that  they  had  left  it. 

In  the  other  case  the  words  have  the  dew  of 
the  morning  upon  them.  They  are  brisk  and 
cheery.  They  stand  erect  and  look  you  in  the 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         85 

eye.  They  are  glad  to  be  alive.  It  is  only  a 
piece  of  dried  beef  and  a  radish  or  two  that  is 
promised,  but  it  is  a  brave  breakfast,  a  good, 
honest,  wholesome,  hungry  breakfast.  We  are 
sure  of  that.  The  very  words  make  us  hungry. 

"  It  7s  only  a  way  of  putting  things,  a  mere 
trick  of  language,"  do  you  say  ?  But  language 
is  not  a  trick,  it  is  an  expression  of  personality. 
Find  out  a  man's  natural  and  habitual  way  of 
expressing  himself  and  you  find  out  a  great  deal 
about  the  man.  We  talk  about  expressing  a 
thought  in  different  language,  but  are  you  sure 
that  in  your  paraphrase  you  have  expressed  all 
the  thought  —  or  if  the  thought,  have  you  also 
expressed  the  feeling*? 

In  the  card  catalogue  of  the  Boston  Library 
there  is  the  title  of  a  book  published  about  a 
hundred  years  ago.  It  is  "An  Attempt  to  trans 
late  the  prophetic  part  of  the  Apocalypse  of 
St.  John  into  familiar  language,  by  divesting  it 
of  the  metaphors  in  which  it  is  involved."  My 
curiosity  was  not  sufficient  to  lead  me  to  take 
out  the  book,  but  I  should  imagine  that  it  would 
not  be  very  much  like  the  Apocalypse. 

The  attempt  to  treat  literary  style  apart  from 


86  THE  CHARM  OF 

the  personality  .of  which  it  is  the  expression 
leads  us  unto  those  regions  of  scholarship  which 
belong  to  the  permanently  arid  belt.  However 
keen  the  analysis,  it  does  not  reveal  the  secret 
of  charm  or  of  force. 

The  true  lover  of  literature  is  discovered  by 
the  simple  test  which  King  Solomon  found  so 
efficacious  when  the  two  women  claimed  each 
for  herself  the  living  child.  The  critic  with  Sol 
omonic  gravity  lifts  his  sword  to  cleave  asunder 
the  living  work  of  genius.  "  I  will  divide  the 
word  from  the  thought.  I  will  give  to  one  the 
literary  form  and  to  the  other  the  actual  mean 
ing  of  this  passage."  Then  the  literal-minded 
student  of  literature  says,  "Divide  it."  But  the 
loving  reader  cries,  "Not  so,  my  Lord.  Give 
her  the  living  child,  and  in  no  wise  slay  it."  It 
all  depends,  of  course,  on  the  kind  of  literature 
which  we  have  in  mind,  whether  it  is  the  kind 
that  lives,  or  is  the  kind  that  is  merely  put 
together. 

Bergson  in  his  "  Creative  Evolution  "  points 
out  the  difference  between  a  vital  process  and 
a  manufacture.  The  manufacturer  finds  in  his 
product  exactly  what  he  put  into  it.  The  pieces 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         87 

are  put  together  and  form  a  complete  whole. 
But  life  has  an  explosive  quality  about  it,  and 
each  bit  into  which  it  explodes  has  power  to 
reproduce  itself,  and  is  influenced  by  a  new  set 
of  circumstances.  Therefore,  "Life  in  evolving 
sows  itself  in  an  unforeseeable  variety  of  form." 

Now  the  same  thing  is  true  in  literary  his 
tory.  There  are  writers  who  are  careful  crafts 
men.  Their  manufactured  works  are  admirably 
done.  They  use  words  which  express  their 
thoughts  with  absolute  precision.  It  is  a  case 
where  we  find  precisely  what  the  manufacturer 
put  into  it.  And  yet  though  we  read  and  ad 
mire  them,  we  find  it  difficult  to  remember 
them.  The  reason  of  this  is  that  we  are  very 
self-centered  creatures,  and  we  can't  remember 
what  other  people  have  thought  nearly  so  well 
as  we  can  what  we  have  been  thinking  our 
selves. 

It  is  here  that  real  genius  for  expression  comes 
in.  Some  one,  in  an  unforgettable  sentence, 
drops  a  thought  into  our  mind.  Henceforth  it 
is  not  his  but  ours.  He  was  but  the  sower  going 
forth  to  sow;  but  our  minds  form  the  field,  and 
the  harvest  is  ours.  There  are  books  which  have 


88  THE  CHARM  OF 

this  germinating  power.  No  matter  what  the 
original  writer  thought,  their  great  value  is  in 
what  they  cause  us  to  think.  "  Words  that  are 
simple,"  said  the  Chinese  sage,  "but  whose 
meanings  are  far-reaching,  are  good  words." 
There  are  inner  meanings,  suggestions  and  uni 
versal  applications.  The  Christian  Apostle  urges 
us  to  "  provoke  one  another  to  good  works." 
So  there  are  books  which  do  not  so  much  fur 
nish  us  with  thoughts  as  provoke  us  to  good 
thinking.  In  such  provocation  the  form  is  very 
essential. 

Of  this  provocative  quality,  the  Bible  is  the 
supreme  example.  An  old  writer  says  of  it, 
"  Where  the  surface  doth  not  laugh  with  corn, 
the  heart  thereof  within  is  merry  with  mines." 
It  provokes  in  us  a  curiosity  which  leads  us  to 
dig  for  hidden  treasure. 

But  even  the  Bible  has  gained  immensely  in 
its  power  over  English-speaking  people  by  the 
fact  that  it  was  translated  at  a  period  when  the 
language  was  peculiarly  vital,  and  the  words 
had  not  lost  their  explosive  power. 

In  Scripture  texts  it  is  very  difficult  to  change 
the  language  without  a  sense  of  impoverish- 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         89 

ment.  Any  one  can  test  this  for  himself  by 
comparing  the  King  James  Version  with  the 
so-called  Twentieth  Century  Version,  whose 
translators  state  their  principle  to  be  to  "ex 
clude  all  words  and  phrases  not  used  in  current 
English."  This  version,  while  it  has  a  value 
of  its  own,  may  serve  as  a  criticism  of  current 
English. 

Read  the  story  of  the  Nativity.  "When 
Herod  the  King  had  heard  these  things  he  was 
troubled  and  all  Jerusalem  with  him."  This  is 
the  simplest  form  of  narrative,  but  it  is  vital. 
Read  it  in  any  time  of  popular  commotion  and 
vague  unrest.  How  the  words  come  back  as  we 
see  the  troubled  rulers  and  the  troubled  city.  It 
is  a  text  which  expresses  the  feeling  which  comes 
in  a  great  civic  crisis. 

But  suppose  the  preacher  were  compelled  to 
take  his  text  from  the  Twentieth  Century  Ver 
sion.  "  When  King  Herod  heard  the  news  he 
was  much  troubled  and  his  anxiety  was  shared 
by  the  whole  of  Jerusalem."  Even  the  person 
least  sensitive  to  literary  charm  must  feel  that 
something  had  happened  to  the  text.  "A  city 
set  upon  a  hill  cannot  be  hid."  These  words 


9o  THE  CHARM  OF 

kindle  thought.  The  Twentieth  Century  Ver 
sion  reads,  "  It  is  impossible  for  a  town  that 
stands  on  a  hill  to  escape  notice."  These  words 
are  a  verbal  wet  blanket 

In  this  praise  of  the  seventeenth-century 
prose  I  do  not  mean  to  cast  discredit  on  our 
own  time.  We  have  many  excellent  writers 
who  have  contributed  to  the  wealth  of  our 
literature. 

But  for  our  health's  sake  it  is  well  now  and 
then  to  escape  from  our  contemporaries  and 
enjoy  the  companionship  of  men  of  another 
generation.  This  is  not  to  say  that  the  former 
times  are  better  than  these,  but  they  were  dif 
ferent.  To  those  who  need  a  change  the  sev 
enteenth  century  may  be  recommended  as  a 
health  resort. 

Every  age  has  its  literary  fashions  and  the 
critics  who  sit  in  high  places  and  tell  us  what 
we  ought  to  admire  and  why.  But  in  spite  of 
their  excellent  reasons  we  often  fret  under  their 
restrictions. 

But  there  is  no  reason  whatever  why  we 
should  submit  to  the  tyranny  of  the  contempb- 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         91 

raneous.  Literature  cannot  be  subject  to  mo 
nopoly.  The  reader  as  the  ultimate  consumer 
can  snap  his  fingers  at  both  the  middleman  and 
the  producers.  His  mind  is  an  open  port.  Ships 
from  all  centuries  can  land  their  cargoes  and  no 
one  can  prevent  them.  If  he  does  not  find  what 
he  likes  in  one  age,  he  can  trade  with  another. 

To  those  who  have  troubles  enough  of  their 
own  to  make  them  value  literature  as  a  means 
of  reinvigoration,  the  seventeenth  century  may 
be  heartily  recommended.  There  may  be  found 
good  air  and  good  exercise  in  the  compan 
ionship  of  men  of  robust  intelligence  and 
of  unfailing  common  sense.  They  had  their 
faults,  but  they  never  mistook  neurasthenia  for 
genius. 

It  is  a  literature  produced,  not  by  specialists 
or  dreamers  or  by  sophisticated  spectators,  but 
by  men  of  action  of  whom  it  could  be  said  as 
it  was  said  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton :  "  He  did 
ever  love  to  join  with  business  study  and  trial 
of  natural  experiments." 

Here  we  may  find  scholars  who  left  "  the 
still  air  of  delightful  studies  "  to  engage  in  the 
strenuous  politics  of  the  day.  Here  we  may  find 


92  THE  CHARM  OF 

honest  gentlemen  who,  when  the  tide  of  fortune 
was  against  them,  learned  to  find  content  by 
the  side  of  quiet  streams. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,"  says  Izaak  Walton,  "  that 
there  be  many  that  have  forty  times  our  estates 
who  would  give  the  greater  part  of  it  to  be 
healthful  and  cheerful  like  us,  who  with  the 
expense  of  a  little  money  have  eat  and  drunk 
and  laughed  and  angled  and  sung,  and  slept 
securely  and  rose  next  day  and  cast  away  care 
and  laughed  and  angled  again." 

Or  we  may  sit  at  table  with  Selden  and  hear 
him  discourse  wisely  and  wittily  about  the  con 
stitution  and  laws. 

Or  we  may  listen  to  that  wise  physician  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  :  "I  thank  God  with  joy,  I  was 
never  afraid  of  hell,  nor  grew  pale  at  the  men 
tion  of  that  place.  I  fear  God,  but  I  am  not 
afraid  of  him.  I  can  hardly  think  any  one  was 
scared  into  heaven.  They  go  the  fairest  way 
to  heaven  that  would  serve  God  without  a 
hell." 

Not  so  did  John  Bunyan  feel.  He  was  hor 
ribly  afraid  of  hell.  But  what  of  it?  Mr.  Honest 
trudges  on  the  difficult  road.  He  has  an  honest 


XVII -CENTURY  PROSE         93 

fear,  but  he  has  an  honest  courage  also,  and  on 
the  road  can  eat  as  brave  a  breakfast  as  any 
angler  of  them  all. 

"How  fares  it  in  your  pilgrimage?"  asks 
Mr.  Contrite.  "It  happens  to  us  as  it  happeneth 
to  all  wayfaring  men,  sometimes  our  way  is 
clean,  sometimes  foul,  sometimes  up  hill,  some 
times  down.  The  wind  is  not  always  at  our 
backs  nor  is  every  one  a  friend  whom  we  meet 
by  the  way.  We  have  met  some  notable  rubs 
already,  and  what  is  yet  before  we  know  not, 
but  for  the  most  part  we  find  it  true  that  has 
been  talked  of  old,  that  a  good  man  must 
suffer  trouble." 

As  we  listen  to  his  talk  we  agree  with  Mr. 
Great  Heart  as  he  cries,  "Well  said,  Father 
Honest;  by  this  I  know  that  thou  art  a  cock  of 
the  right  kind,  for  thou  hast  said  the  truth." 

Whatever  their  politics  or  religion  we  feel 
that  these  were  men  of  the  right  kind,  and  we 
are  glad  that  they  wrote  books. 

And  if  it  should  happen  that  there  should  be 
a  strike  among  living  authors  and  no  new  books 
should  be  produced  for  a  year  and  a  day,  we 
should  not  be  discouraged.  We  should  call  in 


94          XVII -CENTURY  PROSE 

these  sturdy  strike-breakers  from  the  seventeenth 
century.  With  their  aid  we  should,  in  Bunyan's 
pithy  phrase,  make  "  a  pretty  good  shift  to  wag 
along." 


THOMAS  FULLER  AND  HIS 
"WORTHIES" 


T?EBRUARY  23,  1661  (Lord's  Day).  My 
-L  cold  being  increased,  I  staid  at  home  all  day 
pleasing  myself  in  my  dining-room,  now  graced 
with  pictures,  and  reading  of  Dr.  Fuller's  Wor- 
thys.  So  I  spent  the  day.  ...  I  reckon  myself 
as  happy  as  any  man  in  the  world,  for  which 
God  be  praised." 

It  was  indeed  a  day  for  comfortable  thoughts. 
It  was  Sunday,  and  Pepys  could,  without  self- 
reproach,  and  indeed  with  a  real  sense  of  virtue, 
abstain  from  worldly  business.  And  Pepys  had 
a  cold  and  need  not  go  to  church  where  in  those 
days  he  was  quite  often  irritated  by  the  parsons. 
And  here  was  Fuller's  "  Worthies  of  England," 
only  recently  published  and  waiting  to  be  read. 

No,  it  was  not  the  kind  of  book  that  insisted 
on  being  read.  Its  invitation  was  of  a  different 
kind.  It  was  not  made  to  be  read.  It  was  rather 


94          XVII -CENTURY  PROSE 

these  sturdy  strike-breakers  from  the  seventeenth 
century.  With  their  aid  we  should,  in  Bunyan's 
pithy  phrase,  make  "  a  pretty  good  shift  to  wag 
along." 


THOMAS  FULLER  AND  HIS 
"WORTHIES" 


TT^EBRUARY  23,  1661  (Lord's  Day).  My 
JL  cold  being  increased,  I  staid  at  home  all  day 
pleasing  myself  in  my  dining-room,  now  graced 
with  pictures,  and  reading  of  Dr.  Fuller's  Wor- 
thys.  So  I  spent  the  day.  ...  I  reckon  myself 
as  happy  as  any  man  in  the  world,  for  which 
God  be  praised." 

It  was  indeed  a  day  for  comfortable  thoughts. 
It  was  Sunday,  and  Pepys  could,  without  self- 
reproach,  and  indeed  with  a  real  sense  of  virtue, 
abstain  from  worldly  business.  And  Pepys  had 
a  cold  and  need  not  go  to  church  where  in  those 
days  he  was  quite  often  irritated  by  the  parsons. 
And  here  was  Fuller's  "Worthies  of  England," 
only  recently  published  and  waiting  to  be  read. 

No,  it  was  not  the  kind  of  book  that  insisted 
on  being  read.  Its  invitation  was  of  a  different 
kind.  It  was  not  made  to  be  read.  It  was  rather 


98          THOMAS  FULLER  AND 

wars,  but  took  an  active  part  in  them.  He  was 
a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  a  Royal 
ist  by  conviction,  a  chaplain  of  the  King,  living 
much  in  camps,  and  surrounded  by  bitter  par 
tisans.  He  took  sides  heartily,  and  for  a  good 
part  of  his  life  he  was  on  the  losing  side. 

But  having  made  all  the  personal  sacrifices 
necessary  to  show  his  loyalty,  Fuller  drew  the 
line  beyond  which  he  would  not  go.  He  would 
not  sacrifice  his  sanity  and  good  temper  even 
for  the  King  and  the  Church. 

The  times  were  out  of  joint,  but  he  refused 
to  exaggerate  the  evils  of  the  day.  "Many 
things  in  England  are  out  of  joint  for  the  pres 
ent  and  a  strange  confusion  there  is  in  Church 
and  State,  but  let  this  comfort  us  that  it  is  a  con 
fusion  in  tendency  to  order."  Had  Fuller  been 
a  professor  of  History,  writing  two  centuries 
after,  he  could  not  have  better  summed  up  the 
situation. 

Having  come  to  this  philosophic  conclusion 
concerning  the  times  Fuller  proceeded  to  make 
the  best  of  the  circumstances  as  they  developed. 
He  knew  he  was  to  be  jolted  over  abominable 
roads  of  progress  at  a  rate  that  was  disagreeable 


HIS  "WORTHIES"  99 

to  him,  but  fortunately  his  mind  was  furnished 
With  a  shock-absorber.  Humor  was  a  solace  at 
a  time  when  politics  was  a  nightmare.  Writ 
ing  of  one  Bishop  Young  at  the  beginning  of 
the  civil  wars,  he  says,  "I  heard  him  preach 
from  the  text — 'The  waters  are  risen,  O  God, 
the  waters  are  risen.'  Whereupon  he  com 
plained  of  the  invasions  of  popular  violence  in 
Church  and  State.  The  Bishop  was  sadly  sensi 
ble  of  those  inundations  and  yet  he  safely  waded 
through." 

How  admirably  English  that  was.  There  was 
no  use  denying  that  fact  that  the  waters  were 
risen.  But  what  of  it*?  A  sensible  clergyman 
would  tuck  up  his  cassock  and  wade  through. 
It  was  in  this  good-humored  way  that  Fuller 
passed  through  the  days  of  Puritan  ascendancy. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  troubles  he  published 
a  little  volume  of  homilies  entitled,  "Good 
Thoughts  for  Bad  Times."  A  few  years  after 
there  followed,  "Good  Thoughts  for  Worse 
Times,"  and  when  the  cause  of  the  King  began 
to  mend,  "Mixed  Contemplations  for  Better 
Times."  It  was  in  mixed  contemplation  that 
Fuller  excelled. 


ioo        THOMAS  FULLER  AND 

He  indicates  his  position  in  regard  to  many 
of  the  controversies  of  his  time.  "There  dwelt 
not  long  since  a  devout  but  ignorant  papist  in 
Spain.  Every  morning  bending  his  knees  and 
lifting  his  eyes  to  heaven  he  would  repeat  the 
alphabet.  And  now  he  said;  O  good  God  put 
these  letters  together  to  spell  syllables  and  to 
make  such  sense  as  may  be  to  thy  glory  and  my 
good.  ...  In  these  distracted  times  I  fall  to 
the  poor  pious  man's  prayer  A.  B.  C.  D.  etc." 

As  to  the  main  question  to  be  decided  Fuller's 
ideas  were  clear  enough,  but  when  it  came  to 
the  particular  measures  over  which  his  contem 
poraries  contended,  he  insisted  on  a  suspense  of 
judgment. 

As  for  the  zealous  cries  for  more  liberty,  he 
thought  the  age  was  sufficiently  supplied  with 
that  commodity.  "  It  were  liberty  enough  if  for 
the  next  seven  years  all  sermons  were  obliged 
to  keep  residence  on  the  text,  'Love  one  an 
other/  .  .  ."  Too  many  nowadays  are  like  Pha 
raoh's  magicians  who  could  conjure  up  with  their 
charms  new  frogs,  but  could  not  drive  away  the 
frogs  that  were  there  before. 

Turn  from  the  pamphlets  of  the  day  with  their 


HIS  "  WORTHIES  " :  *ci 

fierce  invective  to  Fuller's  little  homily  on  the 
Psalms.  We  suddenly  seem  to  have  entered  a 
haven  of  reasonableness. 

"Sometimes  I  have  disputed  with  myself 
which  was  the  most  guilty,  David  who  said  in 
his  haste  all  men  are  liars,  or  that  wicked  man 
who  sat  and  spoke  against  his  brother  and  slan 
dered  his  mother's  son.  David  seems  the  greater 
offender,  for  mankind  might  have  an  action  of 
defamation  against  him.  Yea,  he  might  be  chal 
lenged  for  giving  all  men  the  lie.  But  mark: 
David  was  in  haste,  he  spoke  as  it  were  in  tran- 
sitUy  when  he  was  passing,  or  rather  posting  by ; 
or  if  you  please  it  was  not  David,  but  David's 
haste  that  rashly  vented  the  words.  Whereas 
the  other  sat,  a  solemn,  serious,  premeditate 
posture.  Now  to  say  sat  carries  with  it  the  counte 
nance  of  a  judicial  proceeding,  as  if  he  made  a 
session  or  bench  business  thereof.  Lord  pardon 
my  cursory  and  preserve  me  from  sedentary 
sins." 

Fuller  was  too  much  a  man  of  his  own  time 
to  avoid  controversy.  For  a  theologian  to  have 
declined  to  enter  the  lists  against  his  foeman 
would  be  as  unpardonable  as  for  an  officer  to 


THOMAS  FULLER  AND 

decline  a  challenge  to  a  duel.  He  must  yield  to 
the  imperious  custom  and  vindicate  his  honor. 

Fuller's  "Appeal  of  Injured  Innocence,"  in 
answer  to  his  adversary  Dr.  Heylin,  is  as  lengthy 
and  circumstantial  as  the  seventeenth-century 
code  required.  It  is  as  voluminous  as  if  the 
reader  had  nothing  to  do  but  sit  listening  to  the 
quarrels  of  the  authors.  Everything  which  Dr. 
Heylin  has  asserted,  Dr.  Fuller  denies.  Nothing 
could  be  more  complete  in  form.  Then,  when 
we  come  to  the  end  we  see  the  warlike  theo 
logical  mask  fall  off  and  the  round,  smiling 
face  of  Tom  Fuller  reveals  itself. 

"You  know  full  well,  sir,  how  in  heraldry  two 
lioncels  rampant  endorsed  are  said  to  be  the  em 
blem  of  two  valiant  men  keeping  an  appoint 
ment,  meeting  in  the  field  but  either  forbidden 
by  the  King  to  fight  or  departing  on  terms 
of  equality  agreed  upon  betwixt  themselves. 
Whereupon  turning  back  to  back,  neither  con 
querors  nor  conquered,  they  depart  their  several 
ways  (their  stout  stomachs  not  suffering  both  to 
go  the  same  way)  lest  it  be  counted  an  injury 
for  one  to  precede  the  other.  In  a  like  manner  I 
know  you  disdain  to  allow  me  to  be  your  equal 


HIS  "WORTHIES"  103 

in  this  controversy,  and  I  will  not  allow  you  to  be 
my  superior.  To  prevent  future  trouble  let  it  be 
a  drawn  battle,  and  let  both  of  us  abound  in  our 
own  sense,  severally  persuaded  in  the  truth  of 
what  we  have  written.  Thus  parting  and  going 
out,  back  to  back,  I  hope  we  may  meet  in 
Heaven,  face  to  face.  In  order  whereunto,  God 
willing,  I  will  give  you  a  meeting  where  you 
shall  be  pleased  to  appoint,  that  we  who  have 
tilted  pens  may  shake  hands  together."  He  signs 
himself,  "A  lover  of  your  parts  and  an  honorour 
of  your  person." 

It  was  not  thus  that  the  men  of  the  seven 
teenth  century  usually  carried  on  their  contro 
versies.  Fuller  was  a  Royalist,  but  the  most  zeal 
ous  Parliament  man  could  not  apply  to  him 
the  common  term  of  reproach  for  his  party  — 
"malignant."  He  had,  as  he  said  of  another,  "a 
broad-chested  soul,  favorable  to  such  as  differed 
with  him." 

We  take  up  a  little  volume  of  sermons  pub 
lished  in  1656,  and  linger  over  the  dedicatory 
epistle:  "To  my  worthy  friends  in  St.  Bridgets 
Parish  in  London,  Jacob  when  sending  his  sons 
into  Egypt  advised  them  to  carry  to  the  Gover- 


io4        THOMAS  FULLER  AND 

nor  there  a  little  balm,  a  little  honey,  spices  and 
myrrh,  nuts  and  almonds.  .  .  .<  The  quantity  a 
little  of  each.  To  carry  much  would  have  been 
less  acceptable." 

Fuller  was  a  peace-lover,  but  he  was  not  a 
thoroughgoing  pacifist.  Much  as  he  desired  that 
all  good  people  in  England  should  keep  strict 
residence  in  the  text,  "  Love  one  another,"  he 
saw  that  they  were  not  likely  to  do  it  till  they 
had  exchanged  a  few  more  stout  blows.  They 
were  not  for  the  present  in  the  mood  to  accept 
much  in  the  way  of  good-will.  But  at  least  he 
could  do  his  bit  and  in  wartime  prepare  for  the 
inevitable  peace.  While  the  other  parsons  were 
smiting  the  Amalekites,  he  could  in  the  midst 
of  the  distracted  times  bring  to  his  friends  a  little 
honey,  spices,  and  myrrh.  No  one  knew  better 
than  Fuller  that  "to  carry  much  would  have 
been  less  acceptable." 

He  was  under  no  illusions.  He  was  well  aware 
that  good  temper  toward  his  adversaries  would 
bring  upon  him  the  charge  of  lukewarmness  to 
ward  his  friends.  It  would  be  difficult  to  keep 
close  to  his  own  party.  But  he  comforted  him 
self  with  the  thought  that  he  was  like  a  man  in 


HIS  "WORTHIES"  105 

the  crowded  fair.  If,  instead  of  nervously  run 
ning  about  to  find  his  friends,  he  took  a  stand 
in  a  central  place,  they  would  be  likely  to  come 
his  way  at  least  once  during  the  day. 

While  he  was  aware  that  his  own  gifts  did 
not  lie  in  the  direction  of  invective,  he  did  not 
object  to  explosions  of  holy  wrath  on  fit  occa 
sions,  and  he  writes  admiringly  of  that  excellent 
clergyman  William  Perkins,  "He  could  pro 
nounce  the  word  damn  with  such  emphasis  as 
left  a  doleful  echo  in  the  hearer's  mind  a  long 
time  after."  What  he  objected  to  was  the  type 
of  man,  too  common  in  his  day,  who  in  the 
name  of  truth  renounced  brotherly  kindness. 
44  He  was  made  all  teeth  and  tongue  biting  what 
ever  he  touched,  and  it  bled  whenever  it  bit." 

It  was  in  the  times  of  the  greatest  distraction, 
when  Fuller's  own  livelihood  was  most  precari 
ous  that  he  wrote  the  two  masterpieces  of  lei 
sure,  "The  Worthies  of  England"  and  "The 
Church  History  of  Britain,"  books  which  seem 
to  be  written  by  one  who  had  all  the  time  in 
the  world  at  his  disposal.  Fuller's  "Church  His 
tory  "  was  written  as  no  church  history  had  been 
written  before  or  since.  It  has  no  natural  begin- 


io6        THOMAS  FULLER  AND 

ning  or  end.  There  is  no  logical  sequence ;  no 
hint  of  development  in  doctrine  or  policy.  For 
all  Fuller  cares  the  centuries  might  have  been 
reversed  and  the  story  told  backwards. 

The  impression  that  we  get  is  that  the  Church 
of  England  had  always  been  there  and  had  always 
been  essentially  the  same.  It  was  a  part  of  the 
landscape.  It  was  connected  with  the  county 
families.  It  was  entwined  with  all  that  was  most 
attractive  in  English  life.  Indeed,  Fuller  is  not 
so  much  interested  in  the  Church  as  in  the  peo 
ple  who  belonged  to  it.  He  stops  to  tell  us 
about  their  coats  of  arms  because  he  thinks  w« 
might  like  to  know  about  them. 

It  is  such  a  rambling  commentary  as  might 
be  given  us  by  a  genial  dean  of  a  cathedral,  who 
takes  us  about  telling  us  of  the  knights  and 
ladies  whose  monuments  we  see.  They  lived 
long  ago,  but  their  descendants  are  still  in  pos 
session  of  the  old  estates.  Moreover,  Fuller's 
leisurely  ramble  through  the  centuries  is  inter 
rupted  by  the  claims  of  hospitality.  He  was  liv 
ing  precariously  and  was  entertained  by  one 
Royalist  gentleman  after  another.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  it  would  be  a  waste  of  good  literary 


HIS  "WORTHIES"  107 

material  to  dedicate  his  whole  history  to  a  single 
benefactor  leaving  the  others  unacknowledged. 
So  he  conceived  the  idea  of  dedicating  each 
chapter  of  his  "Church  History"  to  a  different 
patron.  It  thus  happens  that  the  Church  of  Eng 
land  is  often  forgotten  for  whole  pages  while 
we  listen  to  the  praises  of  Fuller's  many  friends. 
But  it  is  all  pleasant  and  familiar,  and  deepens 
the  impression  that  the  Church  of  England  is 
essentially  a  family  affair  and  has  its  roots  in 
the  family  affections. 

Even  in  his  description  of  the  great  revolu 
tionary  events  Fuller  retains  the  intimate  tone 
of  one  who  is  in  a  little  circle  of  friends.  There 
is  no  attempt  at  the  impartial  dignity  of  history. 
If  he  tells  what  happens,  he  takes  it  for  granted 
that  we  should  like  to  know  what  he  thinks 
about  it. 

Charles  Lamb  might  have  written  the  account 
of  what  followed  on  the  dissolution  of  the  mon 
asteries  :  — 

"As  the  old  clothes  dealers  of  Long  Lane 
when  they  buy  an  old  suit  buy  the  linings  to 
gether  with  the  outside,  so  those  that  bought 
the  buildings  of  the  Monasteries  had  also  the 


io8        THOMAS  FULLER  AND 

libraries  conveyed  to  them.  The  curious  brasses 
and  clasps  were  the  baits  of  covetousness,  and 
many  excellent  old  authors  were  left  naked. 
Some  ancient  manuscripts  were  sold  to  grocers 
and  soap  sellers,  some  to  scour  candlesticks, 
some  to  rub  boots,  and  whole  ships  full  sent 
abroad  to  undoing  of  foreign  nations. 

"What  beautiful  bibles,  rare  fathers,  subtle 
schoolmen,  useful  historians,  all  massacred  to 
gether.  Holy  divinity  was  profaned,  physic  it 
self  hurt,  and  the  history  of  former  time  received 
a  dangerous  wound,  whereof  it  halts  to  this  day, 
and  without  hope  of  a  perfect  cure  must  go  a 
cripple  to  the  grave. 

"  Some  will  say  that  I  herein  discover  a  hark 
ing  after  the  onions  and  flesh  pots  of  Egypt. 
To  such  I  protest  that  I  have  not  the  least  in 
clination  to  monkery.  But  enough.  As  for  these 
back-friends  of  learning  whom  I  have  jogged 
in  my  discourse,  we  will  let  them  alone  to  be 
settled  in  the  lees  of  their  own  ignorance,  pray 
ing  God  that  never  a  good  library  be  left  to 
their  disposal." 

One  may  say  that  this  is  no  way  to  write  his 
tory.  Fuller  would  answer  that  it  was  his  way. 


HIS  "WORTHIES"  109 

"We  read  of  King  Ahasuems  that  having 
his  head  troubled  with  much  business  and  find 
ing  himself  so  indisposed  that  he  could  not  sleep, 
he  caused  the  records  to  be  brought  in  to  him 
hoping  thereby  to  deceive  the  tediousness  of 
the  time,  and  that  the  pleasant  passages  in  the 
chronicles  would  either  invite  slumber  or  enable 
him  to  bear  waking  with  less  molestation.  We 
live  in  a  troublesome  age  and  he  needs  to  have 
a  soft  bed  who  can  sleep  nowadays  amidst  so 
much  loud  noise  and  many  impetuous  rumors. 
Wherefore  it  seemeth  to  me  both  a  safe  and 
cheap  receipt  to  procure  quiet  and  repose  to  the 
mind  that  complains  of  want  of  rest  to  prescribe 
the  reading  of  History.  Great  is  the  pleasure 
and  profit  thereof." 

In  following  his  own  humor  Fuller  may  have 
transgressed  many  of  the  conventions  of  formal 
history  for  which  he  finds  ready  pardon. 

Our  mining  law  declares  that  "A  man  is  en 
titled  to  his  vein  and  all  its  dips,  spurs,  and 
angles,  although  it  may  depart  so  far  from  the 
perpendicular  as  to  pass  the  side  lines  of  the 
location  within  the  plane  of  the  lines  extended." 

Fuller  would  have  paid  no  attention  to  the 


no        THOMAS  FULLER  AND 

perpendicular  lines  limiting  his  subject  and  di 
viding  the  "Church  History  of  Britain"  from 
other  interesting  objects  of  thought.  The  lover 
of  Fuller's  vein  is  content  to  follow  it  through 
all  its  dips  and  spurs  and  angles,  without  regard 
to  the  side  lines  of  the  location.  If  we  do  not 
find  what  we  expected,  we  find  something  else 
which  is  of  more  value. 

And  after  all,  I  am  not  sure  but  that  Fuller 
may  have  given  us  an  essential  truth  which  the 
more  systematic  historians  often  overlook. 

He  gives  the  same  impression  which  one  gets 
when  he  lingers  in  rural  England.  The  village 
church  with  its  ancient  yew  tree,  the  church 
yard  where  the  generations  lie,  the  rectory  hard 
by,  the  cathedral  and  its  close;  these  do  not 
speak  of  events  to  be  narrated.  They  speak  of 
something  permanent;  they  are  deep-rooted  in 
the  English  earth;  they  represent  a  life  mellow 
and  fruitful.  The  successive  generations  might 
well  be  thought  of  as  contemporaneous,  living 
as  they  do  in  an  environment  that  has  been  so 
constant.  This  is  only  one  aspect  of  history,  but 
it  is  an  important  one,  and  one  that  is  often 
ignored. 


HIS  "WORTHIES"  in 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  Fuller's  "Worthies  of 
England"  to  the  "Spoon  River  Anthology,"  but 
the  fundamental  idea  of  the  two  works  is  the 
same.  It  occurred  to  our  present-day  anthologist 
to  take  the  worthies  and  the  unworthies  of  an 
American  village  and  sum  up  their  characteris 
tics  with  all  the  brevity  and  more  than  the  ve 
racity  which  we  associate  with  the  epitaph.  Fuller 
had  the  advantage  of  having  all  England  for  his 
province  and  also  the  advantage  of  liking  most 
of  his  worthies. 

He  takes  England  by  counties.  He  introduces 
us  to  the  people  that  have  been  most  noteworthy. 
They  are  not  confined  to  any  one  generation. 
The  "Worthies"  are  Catholic  or  Protestant,  they 
are  country  gentlemen,  statesmen,  physicians, 
privateers,  clergymen,  lawyers.  Some  of  them 
have  great  names  in  history,  others  live  now  only 
in  these  pages.  But  Fuller  manages  in  a  sentence 
or  two  to  make  us  see  what  manner  of  persons 
they  were.  Each  little  portrait  has  an  unmis 
takable  individuality. 

I  know  nothing  of  Bishop  Foliot  but  what 
Fuller  tells  us,  but  I  feel  remarkably  well  ac 
quainted  with  him:  "He  was  observed  when  a 


ii2         THOMAS  FULLER  AND 

common  brother  to  inveigh  against  the  prior; 
when  prior  he  inveighed  against  the  abbot;  when 
abbot  against  the  pride  and  laziness  of  the  bishop. 
When  he  was  a  bishop,  all  was  well.  Foliot's 
mouth  when  full  was  silent." 

As  Foliot  represents  a  certain  kind  of  reformer, 
so  Fuller  gives  us  a  sketch  of  a  certain  kind  of 
philanthropist:  "I  have  observed  some  in  the 
Church  cast  in  a  sixpence  with  such  ostentation 
that  it  rebounded  from  the  bottom  and  rung 
against  both  sides  of  the  basin — so  that  the  same 
piece  of  silver  was  alms  and  the  trumpet." 

Of  one  Allyn  he  writes:  "He  made  friends 
of  his  unrighteous  mammon  building  therewith 
a  fair  college  at  Dulwich,  for  the  relief  of  the 
poor  people.  Some,  I  confess,  count  it  built  on 
a  foundered  foundation,  seeing  in  a  spiritual 
sense  none  is  good  and  lawful  money  save  what 
is  honestly  gotten.  But  perchance  some  who 
condemn  master  Allyn  have  as  bad  a  shilling  in 
the  bottom  of  their  purses,  if  search  were  made 
in  them." 

Here  we  have  an  example  of  Fuller's  capac 
ity  for  mixed  contemplation.  He  has  a  shrewd 
suspicion  of  tainted  money,  but  his  common 


HIS  "WORTHIES"  113 

sense  makes  him  perceive  that  it  is  not  a  sim 
ple  matter  to  prevent  its  being  put  to  good 
uses.  He  rejoices  in  the  fair  college  at  Dulwich 
in  spite  of  the  question  in  regard  to  Master 
Allyn. 

What  sound  philosophy  is  put  into  the  sen 
tence  which  tells  of  the  mediaeval  schoolman 
John  Baconthorpe:  "He  groped  after  more 
light  than  he  saw;  he  saw  more  than  he  durst 
speak  of;  and  he  spoke  of  more  than  he  was 
thanked  for  by  those  of  his  superstitious  order." 

He  stood  in  strong  contrast  to  that  Saxon 
king  known  as  Ethelred  the  Unready:  "The 
clock  of  his  consultations  was  always  set  some 
hours  too  late,  vainly  striving  with  much  in 
dustry  to  redress  what  a  little  providence  might 
have  prevented.  Now  when  this  unready  king 
met  with  the  Danes,  his  ever  ready  enemies,  no 
wonder  if  lamentable  was  the  event  thereof." 

It  is  to  Fuller  that  we  owe  the  picture  of  the 
"wit  combats"  between  Shakespeare  and  Ben 
Jonson  compared  to  a  battle  between  a  Spanish 
galleon  and  an  English  man-of-war.  "Master 
Jonson  like  the  former  was  built  far  higher  in 
learning,  solid  but  slow  in  performance.  .Shake- 


n4        THOMAS  FULLER  AND 

speare,  with  the  English  man-of-war,  lesser  in  bulk 
but  lighter  in  starting,  could  turn  with  all  tides, 
tack  about,  and  take  advantage  of  all  winds." 

What  delights  us  in  "  The  Worthies  of  Eng 
land  "  is  to  find  that  Shakespeare  and  the  great 
men  whose  names  are  familiar  are  not  set  apart 
but  take  their  places  with  the  multitude  of  men 
of  the  same  breed.  We  are  made  to  feel  that 
men  of  strong  character  and  fine  gifts  were  too 
common  in  England  to  be  made  much  of. 
Fame  seems  almost  a  vulgarity. 

Sometimes  Fuller  comes  across  a  worthy  for 
whom  he  can  do  nothing  but  snatch  his  name 
from  oblivion. 

He  says  of  Robert  Vanite:  "This  put  me  to 
blushing  that  one  so  eminent  in  himself  should 
be  obscure  to  me.  But  all  my  industry  could 
not  retrieve  the  valiant  knight,  so  that  he  seems 
to  me  akin  to  those  spirits  who  appear  but  once 
and  then  vanish  away." 

There  are  more  heroic  figures  in  the  seven 
teenth  century  than  the  Royalist  parson  whom 
his  contemporaries  called  "Tom  Fuller,"  and 
whom  those  who  came  after  quoted  as  "Old 
Thomas  Fuller."  "  Old  "  was  an  adjective  never 


HIS  " WORTHIES"  115 

appropriate  to  him  save  as  a  term  of  affection 
ate  familiarity. 

But  if  heroism  consists  in  being  faithful  to 
one's  own  ideals  rather  than  to  those  imposed 
by  one's  contemporaries  I  am  not  sure  but  that  he 
deserved  the  title  "heroic."  When  men  are  mak 
ing  a  religion  of  hating  one  another,  it  requires 
some  courage  to  follow  one's  own  generous 
inclination.  Sanity  may  in  time  of  fanaticism  be 
lifted  to  heroic  proportions.  To  love  one's  ene 
mies,  or  rather  to  assent  to  the  proposition  that 
it  is  virtuous  to  love  one's  enemies,  is  often  easier 
than  to  treat  them  as  ordinary  human  beings 
who  are  very  troublesome  at  present,  but  who 
may  be  better  by  and  by.  This  was  Fuller's  habit 
ual  attitude.  In  pleading  for  moderation  he  was 
careful  to  distinguish  it  from  lukewarmness. 
The  moderate  men  are  commonly  attacked  by 
both  extreme  parties.  But  what  of  it?  "As  the 
moderate  man's  temporal  hopes  are  not  great, 
so  his  fears  are  the  less.  He  fears  not  to  have 
the  splinters  of  his  party  when  it  breaks  fly  into 
his  eyes,  or  to  be  buried  under  the  ruins  of  his 
side,  if  suppressed.  He  never  pinned  his  religion 
on  any  man's  sleeve." 


n6  THOMAS  FULLER 

He  was  fortunate  in  his  life,  making  friends 
in  adversity,  and  giving  cheer  to  those  who 
sadly  needed  it.  And  death  came  in  time  to  pre 
vent  a  catastrophe  which  might  have  obscured 
for  us  that  which  is  most  distinctive. 

For  Charles  the  Second  was  about  to  make 
him  a  bishop.  This  would  have  been  a  calamity. 
Thomas  Fuller  would  have  made  a  very  poor 
bishop. 


A   LITERARY   CLINIC 


other  day,  on  going   by  my  friend 
JL  Bagster's  church,  I  saw  a  new  sign  over 
if  the  vestry :  — 

I      "  Bibliopathic  Institute.  Book  Treatment  by 
/  Competent  Specialists.   Dr.  Bagster  meets  pa 
tients  by  appointment.    Free   Clinic  2-4  P.M. 
\  Out-patients  looked  after  in  their  homes   by 
\members  of  the  Social   Service   Department. 
Young  People's  Lend-a-Thought  Club  every 
Sunday  evening  at  7.30.   Tired  Business  Men 
in   classes.   Tired  Business  Men's  tired  wives 
given  individual  treatment.   Tired  mothers  who 
are  reading  for  health  may  leave  their  children 
in  the  Day  Nursery." 

It  had  been  several  years  since  I  had  seen 
Bagster.  At  that  time  he  had  been  recuperating 
after  excessive  and  too  widely  diffused  efforts 
for  the  public  good.  Indeed,  the  variety  of  his 
efforts  for  the  public  good  had  been  too  much 


n8          A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

for  him.  Nothing  human  was  foreign  to  Bagster. 
All  sorts  of  ideas  flocked  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth  and  claimed  citizenship  in  his  mind.  No 
matter  how  foreign  the  idea  might  be,  it  was 
never  interned  as  an  alien  enemy.  The  result 
was  he  had  suffered  from  the  excessive  immi 
gration  of  ideas  that  were  not  easily  assimilated 
by  the  native  stock.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
that  it  might  have  been  better  if  he  had  not  al 
lowed  these  aliens  a  controlling  influence  till 
they  had  taken  out  their  first  naturalization 
papers.  But  that  was  not  Bagster's  way. 

Dropping  into  what  once  was  known  as  the 
vestry  of  the  church,  but  which  is  now  the  office 
of  the  Institute,  I  found  a  row  of  patients  sitting 
with  an  air  of  expectant  resignation.  A  business 
like  young  woman  attempted  to  put  my  name 
on  an  appointment  card.  I  mumbled  an  ex 
cuse  to  the  effect  that  I  was  a  friend  of  the  doc 
tor  and  wished  to  remain  so,  and  therefore  would 
not  call  during  office-hours. 

The  next  day  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  find 
\  Bagster  in  one  of  his  rare  periods  of  leisure  and 
to  hear  from  his  own  lips  an  account  of  his  new 
enterprise. 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC  119 

/'You  know,"  he  said,  "I  was  unfortunate 
enough  to  be  out  of  health  several  years  ago,  at 
the  time  when  the  ministers  began  to  go  into 
Psychotherapy.  I  liked  the  idea  and  would 
have  gone  into  it  too,  but  I  had  to  let  my  mind 
lie  fallow  for  a  while.  It  seemed  too  bad  not  to 
have  a  clinic.  We  ought  all  to  be  healthier  than 
we  are,  and  if  we  could  get  the  right  thoughts 
and  hold  on  to  them,  we  should  get  rid  of  a  good 
many  ills.  Even  the  M.D.'s  admit  that.  I  read 
up  on  the  subject  and  started  in  to  practice  as 
soon  as  I  got  back.  For  a  while,  everything  went 
well.  When  a  patient  came  I  would  suggest  to 
him  a  thought  which  he  should  hold  for  the  ben 
efit  of  his  soul  and  body." 

"What  was  the  difficulty  with  the  treat 
ment4?" 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Bagster,  "  I  ran  out  of 
thoughts.  It's  all  very  well  to  say,  'Hold  a 
thought.'  But  what  if  there  is  n't  anything  you 
can  get  a  grip  on?  You  know  the  law  of  the 
association  of  ideas.  That 's  where  the  trouble 
lies.  An  idea  will  appear  to  be  perfectly  reli 
able,  and  you  think  you  know  just  where  to 
find  it.  But  it  falls  in  with  idle  associates  and 


120          A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

plays  truant.  When  you  want  it,  it  isn't  there. 
And  there  are  a  lot  of  solid  thoughts  that  have 
been  knocking  about  in  the  minds  of  everybody 
till  their  edges  are  worn  off.  You  can't  hold 
them.  A  thought  to  be  held  must  be  interest 
ing.  When  I  read  that  in  the  Psychology,  I 
was  staggered. 

"To  be  interesting,  a  thought  must  pass 
through  the  mind  of  an  interesting  person.  In 
the  process  something  happens  to  it.  It  is  no 
longer  an  inorganic  substance,  but  it  is  in  such 
form  that  it  can  easily  be  assimilated  by  other 
minds.  It  is  these  humanized  and  individual 
ized  thoughts  that  can  be  profitably  held. 

"  Then  it  struck  me  that  this  is  what  litera 
ture  means.  Here  we  have  a  stock  of  thoughts 
in  such  a  variety  of  forms  that  they  can  be  used 
not  only  for  food,  but  for  medicine. 

"  During  the  last  year,  I  have  been  working 
up  a  system  of  Biblio-therapeutics.  I  don't  pay 
much  attention  to  the  purely  literary  or  histor 
ical  classifications.  I  don't  care  whether  a  book 
is  ancient  or  modern,  whether  it  is  English  or 
German,  whether  it  is  in  prose  or  verse,  whether 
it  is  a  history  or  a  collection  of  essays,  whether 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

it  is  romantic  or  realistic.  I  only  ask,  '  What  is 
its  therapeutic  value?'" 

He  went  on  didactically,  as  if  he  were  ad 
dressing  a  class. 

"A  book  may  be  a  stimulant  or  a  sedative  or 
an  irritant  or  a  soporific.  The  point  is  that  it 
must  do  something  to  you,  and  you  ought  to 
know  what  it  is.  A  book  may  be  of  the  nature  of 
a  soothing  syrup  or  it  may  be  of  the  nature  of  a 
mustard  plaster.  The  question  for  you  to  decide 
is  whether  in  your  condition  you  need  to  have 
administered  soothing  syrup  or  a  mustard  plaster. 

"  Literary  critics  make  a  great  to-do  about 
the  multiplication  of  worthless  or  hurtful  books. 
They  make  lists  of  good,  bad,  and  indifferent. 
But  in  spite  of  this  outcry,  there  is  nothing  so 
harmless  as  printed  matter  when  it  is  left  to 
itself.  A  man's  thoughts  never  occupy  so  little 
space  or  waste  so  little  of  his  neighbor's  time  as 
when  neatly  printed  and  pressed  between  the 
covers  of  a  book.  There  they  lie  without  power 
of  motion.  What  if  a  book  is  dull?  It  can't 
follow  you  about.  It  can't  button-hole  you  and 
say,  'One  word  more.'  When  you  shut  up  a 
book,  it  stays  shut. 


122  A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

"  The  true  function  of  a  literary  critic  is  not 
to  pass  judgment  on  the  book,  but  to  diagnose 
the  condition  of  the  person  who  has  read  it. 
What  was  his  state  of  mind  before  reading  and 
after  reading  ?  Was  he  better  or  worse  for  his 
experience  ? 

b**k  is  dull,  thgt  is  a  matter  Wtw<*<«n 
itself  and  its  maker,  but  if  it  makes  me  duller 
than  I  should  otherwise  have  been,  then  my 
family  has  a  grievance.  To  pass  judgment  on 
the  books  on  a  library  shelf  without  regard  to 
their  effects  is  like  passing  judgment  on  the 
contents  of  a  drug  store  from  the  standpoint  of 
mineralogy,  without  regard  to  physiology.  In 
the  glass  jars  are  crystals  which  are  mineralogi- 
cally  excellent  —  but  are  they  good  to  eat  ? 

"  The  sensible  man  does  not  jump  at  conclu 
sions,  but  asks  expert  advice.  But  many  per 
sons,  when  they  take  up  a  highly  recommended 
book,  feel  in  conscience  bound  to  go  through  to 
the  bitter  end,  whether  it  is  good  for  them  or  not. 
From  my  point  of  view,  a  book  is  a  literary 
prescription  put  up  for  the  benefit  of  some  one 
who  needs  it.  It  may  be  simple  or  compounded 
of  many  ingredients.  The  ideas  may  unite  in 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC          ia3 

true  chemical  union  or  they  may  be  insoluble 
in  one  another  and  form  an  emulsion. 

"  The  essays  of  Emerson  form  an  emulsion. 
The  sentences  are  tiny  globules  of  wisdom 
which  do  not  actually  coalesce,  but  remain  sus 
pended  in  one  another.  They  should  be  shaken 
before  using. 

"  Maeterlinck  contains  volatile  elements  which 
easily  escape  the  careless  readers.  Chesterton's 
essays  contain  a  great  deal  of  solid  common 
sense,  but  always  in  the  form  of  an  effervescent 
mixture.  By  mixing  what  we  think  with  what 
we  think  we  think,  this  effervescence  invariably 
results. 

"Dante,  we  are  told,  belonged  to  the  Guild 
of  the  Apothecaries.  It  was  an  excellent  train 
ing  for  a  literary  man.  Some  writers,  like  Dean 
Swift,  always  present  truth  in  an  acid  form. 
Others  prefer  to  add  an  edulcorant  or  sweetener. 

"  Of  this  Edulcorating  School  was  Thomas 
Fuller,  who  tells  how  he  compounded  his  His 
tory.  '  I  did  not  so  attemper  my  history  to  the 
palate  of  the  government  so  as  to  sweeten  it 
with  any  falsehood,  but  I  made  it  palatable,  so 
as  not  to  give  any  wilful  disgust  to  those  in 


H4  A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

present  power,  and  procure  danger  to  myself  by 
using  over-tart  or  bitter  expressions  better  for 
borne  than  inserted  —  without  any  prejudice  to 
the  truth/ 

"A  book  being  a  literary  prescription,  it 
should  be  carefully  put  up.  Thus  I  learned,  in 
looking  up  the  subject,  that  a  proper  prescrip 
tion  contains :  — 

"  (i)  A  basis  or  chief  ingredient,  intended  to 
cure. 

"  (2)  An  adjuvant,  to  assist  the  action  and 
make  it  cure  more  quickly. 

u  (3)  A  corrective,  to  prevent  or  lessen  any 
undesirable  effect. 

"  (4)  A  vehicle  or  excipient,  to  make  it  suita 
ble  for  administration  and  pleasant  to  the  patient. 

"  I  do  not  propose  to  go  into  literary  phar 
macy  more  than  to  say  that  there  are  sufficient 
tests  of  what  is  called  literary  style.  In  regard 
to  a  book,  I  ask,  Does  it  have  any  basis  or  chief 
ingredient?  Does  the  Author  furnish  any  cor 
rective  for  his  own  exaggerations?  Above  all, 
is  the  remedy  presented  in  a  pleasant  vehicle  or 
excipient,  so  that  it  will  go  down  easily  ? 

"I  have  said,"  continued  Bagster,  "that  cer- 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC  12 j 

tain  books  are  stimulants.  They  do  not  so  much 
furnish  us  with  thoughts  as  set  us  to  thinking. 
They  awaken  faculties  which  we  had  allowed  to 
be  dormant.  After  reading  them  we  actually 
feel  differently  and  frequently  we  act  differently. 
The  book  is  a  spiritual  event. 

"  Books  that  are  true  stimulants  are  not  pro 
duced  every  year.  They  are  not  made  to  order, 
but  are  the  products  of  original  minds  under 
the  stress  of  peculiar  circumstances.  Each  gen 
eration  produces  some  writer  who  exerts  a 
powerfully  stimulating  influence  on  his  contem 
poraries,  stirring  emotion  and  leading  to  action. 
The  book  does  something. 

"  So  Carlyle  stimulated  his  generation  to 
work,  and  Ruskin  stimulated  it  to  social  serv 
ice  and  to  the  appreciation  of  Art.  Tolstoy 
stimulated  the  will  to  self-sacrifice,  and  Nietz 
sche  has  overestimated  the  will  to  power. 
Rousseau  furnished  the  stimulant  to  his  genera 
tion  both  to  a  political  and  educational  revolu 
tion.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  Lord  Burleigh 
said  of  John  Knox,  'His  voice  is  able  in  an 
hour  to  put  more  life  in  us  than  six  hundred 
trumpets  blaring  in  our  ears.' 


126          A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

"When  the  stimulants  are  fresh,  there  is  no 
difficulty  in  getting  them  into  use.  Indeed,  the 
/difficulty  is  in  enforcing  moderation.  The  book 
with  a  new  emotional  appeal  is  taken  up  by 
the  intelligent  young  people,  who  form  the  vol 
unteer  poison  squad.  If  the  poison  squad  sur 
vives,  the  book  gets  into  general  circulation 
among  the  more  elderly  readers  whose  motto  is 

4  Safety  first/ 

J 

"  It  is  to  be  noticed  that  the  full  stimulating 
effect  of  most  books  is  lessened  after  they  have 
been  kept  long  in  stock.  When  to-day  you  un 
cork  Rousseau,  nothing  pops.  Calvin's  Insti 
tutes  had  a  most  powerfully  stimulating  effect 
upon  the  more  radical  young  people  of  his  day. 
It  is  now  between  three  and  four  centuries  since 
it  has  been  exposed  to  the  air,  and  it  has  lost 
its  original  effervescence. 

"  We  must  also  take  into  effect  the  well-known 
principle  of  immunization.  When  a  writer  sets 
forth  in  a  book  certain  powerful  ideas,  they  may 
produce  very  little  disturbance  because  every 
body  has  had  them  before.  There  was  a  time 
when  the  poems  of  Byron  were  considered  to  be 
very  heady.  Young  men  went  wild  over  them. 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC          127 

They  stimulated  them  to  all  sorts  of  unusual 
actions.  They  modified  their  collars  and  their 
way  of  wearing  their  hair.  Young  men  may 
still,  as  a  part  of  their  college  education,  read 
'The  Corsair,'  but  this  required  reading  does  not 
impel  them  toward  a  career  of  picturesque  and 
heartbroken  piracy.  Pessimism  has  its  fashions, 
and  to-day  it  is  realistic  rather  than  romantic 
and  sentimental.  ^ 

"  It  is  hard  to  get  a  blameless  youth  to  enjoy 
the  spiritual  exultation  that  comes  from  the 
sense  of  romantic  guilt,  and  a  vast  unquench 
able  revenge  for  the  unfathomable  injuries  that 
came  from  the  fact  that  he  was  born  with  a 
superior  mind.  But  that  was  what  our  great-grand 
fathers  felt  when  Byronism  was  in  its  early 
bloom.  It  was  a  feeling  at  once  cosmical  and 
egotistical.  When  we  look  at  the  placid,  respect 
able  portraits  of  our  ancestors  of  the  early  nine 
teenth  century,  we  can  get  no  idea  of  the  way 
in  which  they  inwardly  raged  and  exulted  as 
they  read,  — 

"  The  mind  that  broods  on  guilty  woes 

Is  like  a  scorpion  girt  with  fire 
In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows, 
The  flames  around  the  captive  close 


128  A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

Till  inly  searched  with  thousand  throes. 

And  maddening  in  her  ire 
One  sole  and  sad  relief  she  knows, 
The  sting  she  nourished  for  her  foes. 

" '  That  means  me,'  says  the  promising  young 
reader  as  he  inwardly  rages  because  he  is  girt  in 
by  a  commonplace  community  that  stupidly 
refuses  to  acknowledge  itself  as  his  foe  —  in 
fact,  does  n't  know  that  he's  there.  What  he 
wants  is  a  foe  on  whom  he  can  vent  his  poetic 
ire.  When  he  can't  find  one,  he  falls  into  a 
mood  of  delicious  self-pity. 

t *•  The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 

Might  thank  the  pain  that  made  it  less ; 
We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share, 
Even  bliss. 

The  keenest  pangs  the  wretched  find 

Are  rapture  to  the  dreary  void, 
The  leafless  desert  of  the  mind, 
The  waste  of  feeling  unemployed. 

"There  you  have  it.  In  each  generation  the 
pathetic  consciousness  of  youth  is  of  the  waste 
of  feeling  unemployed.  Byron  appealed  to  the 
spiritually  unemployed.  But  as  an  employment 
agent  he  was  less  successful.  The  only  employ 
ment  he  suggested  was  a  general  vindictiveness. 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC  129 

The  heart  once  thus  left  desolate,  must  fly  at 
last  from  ease  to  hate.  It  almost  seems  that  the 
remedy  was  worse  than  the  disease.  But  our 
great-grandfathers,  before  they  had  troubles  of 
their  own,  got  a  great  deal  of  stimulation  from 
Byron." 

"But  Byron,"  I  said,  "did  more  than  that  to 
his  readers." 

"Yes,"  said  Bagster,  "Byron  was  a  real  stim 
ulant." 

"  Biblio-therapy  is  such  a  new  science  that  it 
is  no  wonder  that  there  are  many  erroneous 
opinions  as  to  the  actual  effect  which  any  par 
ticular  book  may  have.  There  is  always  room 
for  the  imagination  in  such  matters.  There 
has  been  a  great  change  in  the  theory  of 
stimulants.  Here  is  a  little  book  published  in 
Saco,  Maine,  in  1829.  It  is  'Stewart's  Healing 
Art,'  by  the  Reverend  W.  Stewart,  D.D.,  of 
Bloomfield,  Somerset,  Maine.  Dr.  Stewart,  when 
he  turned  from  theology  to  medicine,  lost  none 
of  his  zeal.  He  was  a  great  believer  in  very  strong 
remedies.  In  regard  to  the  treatment  of  night 
mare,  he  says,  4  It  arises  from  a  tarry  condition 
of  the  blood.  Half  an  ounce  of  my  stimulating 


130  A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

bitters,  half  an  ounce  of  powders  put  in  a  quart 
of  good  rum  will  cure  the  patient/ 

"  I  fear  that  among  Dr.  Stewart's  parishioners 
nightmare  was  a  recurrent  disease. 

"Physiologists  have  recently  exploded  the 
notion  that  alcohol  is  a  stimulant.  They  now  tell 
us  that  it  is  a  depressant.  The  man  who  has  im 
bibed  freely  feels  brilliant,  but  he  is  n't.  He  is 
more  dull  than  usual,  but  he  does  n't  know  it. 
His  critical  faculty  has  been  depressed,  so  that 
he  has  nothing  to  measure  himself  by.  He  has 
lost  control  of  his  mental  machinery,  and  he  is 
not  strong  enough  to  put  on  the  brake. 

"  Here  is  a  stock  of  literary  depressants  which 
have  been  manufactured  in  large  quantities. 
Here  is  a  writer  who  turns  out  a  thriller  every 
six  months.  Every  book  has  the  same  plot,  the 
same  characters,  the  same  conclusion.  The  char 
acters  appear  under  different  aliases.  Their  resi 
dences  are  different,  but  one  might  compile  a 
directory  of  these  unnoted  names  of  fiction. 

"  Here  is  a  book  that  conveys  the  impression 
that  it  is  perfectly  shocking.  The  author  speaks 
of  his  work  with  bated  breath.  It  is  so  strong. 
He  wonders  why  it  is  allowed.  And  yet  it  con- 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC          131 

tains  nothing  which  the  adult  person  did  n't 
know  before  he  was  born.  As  for  his  newly 
discovered  substitutes  for  ethics,  they  were  the 
moral  platitudes  of  the  cave-dwellers.  The 
habitual  reader  who  imbibes  these  beverages 
thinks  that  he  is  exhilarated.  What  he  needs 
is  a  true  stimulant,  something  that  will  stimu 
late  his  torpid  faculty. 

"  There  are  other  books  which  are  often  con 
fused  with  true  stimulants  but  which  are  really 
quite  different  both  in  their  composition  and 
effects  —  they  are  the  counter-irritants. 

"A  counter-irritant  is  a  substance  employed 
to  produce  an  irritation  in  one  part  of  the  body 
in  order  to  counteract  a  morbid  condition  in 
another  part.  Counter-irritants  are  superficial 
in  their  application,  but  sometimes  remarkably 
efficacious.  In  medical  practice,  the  commonest 
counter-irritants  are  mustard,  croton-oil,  turpen 
tine,  and  Spanish  flies.  In  recent  Biblio-thera- 
peutic  practice  the  commonest  counter-irritant 
is  Bernard  Shaw.  There  are  cases  in  which 
literature  that  produces  a  state  of  exasperation 

is  beneficial.  .— — * 

I "  Here  is  a  case  in  my  practice.  —  A.  X. 


132          A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

Middle-aged.  Intelligence  middling.  Circum 
stances  comfortable.  Opinions  partially  ossified 
but  giving  him  no  inconvenience.  Early  in  life 
was  in  the  habit  of  imbibing  new  ideas,  but 
now  finds  they  don't  agree  with  him,  and  for 
some  years  has  been  a  total  abstainer.  Happily 
married  —  at  least  for  himself.  Is  fully  appreci 
ative  of  his  own  virtues  and  has  at  times  a  sense 
of  moral  repletion.  Is  averse  to  any  attempt  at 
social  betterment  that  may  interfere  with  his 
own  comfort. 

"  He  did  n't  come  to  me  of  his  own  accord 
—  he  was  sent.  He  assured  me  that  there  was 
nothing  the  matter  with  him  and  that  he  never 
felt  better  in  his  life. 

" '  That  is  what  I  understood/  I  said.  '  It  is 

that  which  alarmed  your  friends.  If  you  will 

cooperate  with  us,  we  will  try  to  make  you  so 

uncomfortable   that    in    your  effort  to  escape 

from  our  treatment  you  may  exercise  faculties 

S    that  may  make  you  a  useful  member  of  society. 

~  " '  You  must  read  more  novels.  Not  pleasant 

stories  that  make   you  forget  yourself.  They 

must  be  searching,  drastic,  stinging,  relentless 

novels,  without  any  alleviation  of  humor  or  any 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC        133 

sympathy  with  human  weakness  designed  to 
make  you  miserable.  They  will  show  you  up. 

" '  I  will  give  you  a  list  with  all  the  ingredi 
ents  plainly  indicated  according  to  the  provi 
sion  of  the  pure  food  and  drug  law.  Each  one 
will  make  you  feel  bad  in  a  new  spot.  When 
you  are  ashamed  of  all  your  sins,  I  will  rub  in 
a  few  caustic  comments  of  Bernard  Shaw  to 
make  you  ashamed  of  all  your  virtues.  By  that 
time  you  will  be  in  such  a  state  of  healthy  ex 
asperation  as  you  have  not  known  for  years/  " 

"  How  did  it  come  out  *?  "  I  asked. 

"  That  time  I  lost  my  patient,"  said  Bagster. 
"  It  is  curious  about  irritants,  so  much  depends 
on  the  person.  To  some  skins  glycerine  is  very 
irritating.  And  there  are  some  minds  that  are 
irritated  by  what  is  called  gentle  irony. 

"Here  is  one  of  the  most  irritating  things 
ever  written,"  he  said,  picking  up  Daniel  Defoe's 
"  Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters."  "  To  read 
'  Robinson  Crusoe '  one  would  n't  suppose  that 
its  author  could  drive  his  contemporaries  almost 
frantic.  There  was  nothing  sharp  about  Defoe's 
style.  He  did  not  stab  his  opponents  with  a 
rapier-like  wit.  His  style  was  always  circum- 


134         A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

stantial.  His  manner  was  adhesive.  Seriously 
and  earnestly  as  one  who  was  working  for  good, 
he  sought  out  the  most  sensitive  spot  and  then 
with  a  few  kind  words  he  applied  his  blistering 
adhesive  plaster.  No  wonder  Defoe  had  to  stand 
on  a  pillory." 

"I  suppose,"  I  said,  "you  would  class  all 
satires  as  counter-irritants." 

"No,"  said  Bagster.  "Pure  satire  is  not  irritat 
ing.  It  belongs  not  to  medicine,  but  to  surgery. 
When  the  operation  is  done  skillfully,  there  is 
little  shock.  The  patient  is  often  unaware  that 
anything  has  happened,  like  the  saint  in  the  old 
martyrology  who,  after  he  had  been  decapitated, 
walked  off  absent-mindedly  with  his  head  under 
his  arm." 

Bagster  opened  the  door  of  a  case  labeled 
Antipyretics.  It  contained  what  at  first  seemed 
an  incongruous  collection  of  books,  among 
which  I  noticed :  "  The  Meditations  of  Mar 
cus  Aurelius,"  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  "  Urn-Bu 
rial,"  Trollope's  novels,  the  Revised  Statutes  of 
Illinois,  the  poems  of  Ossian,  Gray's  "  Elegy," 
a  history  of  Babylon,  "  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son,"  Young's  "  Night  Thoughts,"  and  Thomas 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC          135 

Benton's  "Thirty  Years  in  the  United  States 
Senate." 

"I  don't  pretend  that  this  collection  has  any 
scientific  value.  My  method  has  been  purely 
empirical.  There  are  remedies  that  I  have  tried 
on  individual  patients.  An  antipyretic  is  some 
thing  which  depresses  the  temperature;  it  is  use 
ful  in  allaying  fevers.  I  should  not  put  these 
books  in  the  same  class  except  for  therapeutic 
purposes.  They  have  a  tendency  to  cool  us  off. 
You  know  Emerson  tells  us  how,  on  coming  out 
of  the  heated  political  meetings,  Nature  would 
put  her  hands  on  his  head  and  say,  'My  little 
man,  why  so  hot*?'  And  there  are  books  that 
do  the  same  for  us. 

"  It  takes  a  person  of  a  philosophic  mind  to 
respond  to  the  antipyretic  influence  of  Marcus 
Aurelius.  One  of  my  patients  confessed  that  in 
attempting  to  reach  those  philosophic  heights  he 
'  felt  considerable  het  up.' 

a  In  cases  where  the  conscience  has  been  over- 
stimulated  by  incessant  modern  demands,  I  find 
Trollope  a  sovereign  remedy.  After  unsuccess 
ful  attempts  to  live  up  to  my  own  ideals,  as  well 
as  to  those  of  my  neighbors,  I  drop  down  into 


i3 6  A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

the  Cathedral  Close,  Barchester,  and  renew  my 
acquaintance  with  Bishop  Proudie  and  his  ex 
cellent  lady  and  the  Dean  and  Chapter,  includ 
ing  the  minor  canons.  Everything  is  so  morally 
secure.  These  persons  have  their  ideals,  and 
they  are  so  easily  lived  up  to.  It  is  comforting 
now  and  then  to  come  into  a  society  where 
every  one  is  doing  his  duty  as  he  sees  it,  and 
nobody  sees  any  duty  which  it  would  be  trou 
blesome  for  him  to  do. 

"Here  is  a  somewhat  different  case.  A.  J. 
came  to  me  complaining  of  great  depression  of 
spirits.  On  inquiry,  I  found  he  was  a  book- 
reviewer  on  a  daily  paper.  I  suspected  that  he 
was  suffering  from  an  occupational  disease.  Said 
that  nobody  loved  him,  he  was  a  literary  hang 
man,  whose  duty  it  was  to  hang,  draw,  and  quar 
ter  the  books  that  were  brought  to  him  for  ex 
ecution.  Nobody  loves  a  hangman.  Yet  he  was 
naturally  of  an  affectionate  disposition.  I  found 
that  he  was  a  man  of  fastidious  taste,  and  a  split 
infinitive  caused  him  acute  pain.  Our  social 
worker  called  at  the  house  and  found  that  be 
sides  the  agony  caused  by  reading  so  many  poor 
books,  he  had  financial  anxiety.  The  boss  had 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC          137 

said  that  if  he  continued  to  be  so  savage  in  his 
criticisms,  he  would  lose  his  job.  He  has  a  wife 
and  three  children. 

"I  talked  to  him  soothingly  about  the  general 
state  of  literature.  It  was  too  much  to  expect 
that  a  faultless  masterpiece  should  be  produced 
every  week.  It  is  hard  enough  to  get  people  to 
read  masterpieces,  as  it  is.  If  they  were  produced 
in  greater  quantities,  it  might  be  fatal  to  the 
reading  habit. 

"'You  set  your  standard  too  high  at  the  be 
ginning.  You  are  like  a  taxicab  driver  who  sets 
the  hands  of  the  dial  at  the  seventy-five  cent 
mark  before  he  starts  his  machine.  This  dis 
courages  the  passenger.  If  it  costs  so  much  to 
stand  still,  he  thinks  it  would  be  better  to  get 
out  and  walk.  Start  the  day  with  some  book 
that  can  be  easily  improved  upon.' 

"  I  gave  him  a  copy  of  the  '•  Congressional 
Record.'  '  Every  day  before  you  sit  down  to 
your  pile  of  new  books,  read  a  chapter  of  this 
voluminous  work/ 

"  Yesterday  he  told  me  he  had  read  a  hun 
dred  pages.  <  By  the  way,'  he  said,  '  I  have 
noticed  a  marked  improvement  in  our  young 


138  A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

writers,  whose  books  come  to  my  desk.  Their 
style  seems  so  clear  and  their  expressions  are 
so  concise/ 

"  After  spending  a  certain  time  every  day  in 
reading  the  works  of  our  lawmakers  he  had 
learned  many  lessons  of  literary  tolerance.  He 
used  to  be  annoyed  because  every  one  was  n't 
as  critical  as  he  was.  Now  he  is  inclined  to  treat 
criticism  as  a  special  interest. 

"  He  read  with  approval  a  revelation  concern 
ing  the  Apocrypha  given  in  1 833  to  one  of  the 
Latter-day  Saints.  'Thus  said  the  Lord  unto 
you  concerning  the  Apocrypha.  There  are  many 
things  contained  in  it  that  are  true,  and  there  are 
many  things  contained  in  it  that  are  not  true. 
Whoso  readeth  it  let  him  understand  it.  Whoso 
is  enlightened  shall  obtain  benefit.  Whoso  is  not 
enlightened  cannot  be  benefited.  Therefore  it  is 
not  needful  that  the  Apocrypha  should  be  trans 
lated/ 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  sense  in  that.  Those 
who  are  enlightened  enough  to  read  the  Apoc 
rypha  will  be  benefited.  Those  who  cannot  be 
benefited  will  not  read  it.  Perhaps  it's  just  as 
well 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC          139 

"  I  have  a  patient,  an  aspiring  politician,  who 
almost  went  to  pieces  through  his  excessive  de 
votion  to  his  own  interests  in  the  last  campaign. 
As  he  had  identified  his  interests  with  those  of 
his  country,  when  he  lost  the  election  he  felt 
that  the  country  was  ruined.  He  could,  he  told 
me,  have  stood  his  personal  disappointment, 
but  the  sudden  collapse  of  public  righteousness 
was  too  much  for  him.  Marcus  Aurelius,  Epic- 
tetus  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  *  Urn-Burial* 
had  no  effect  in  allaying  his  feverish  symptoms. 
I  had  him  recite  Gray's  '  Elegy '  for  three  suc 
cessive  mornings.  But  the  clinical  chart  showed 
that  his  temperature  continued  above  normal. 

"Quite  by  accident,  I  recalled  the  volumes  of 
Senator  Benton.  As  a  child  I  had  often  looked 
at  them  with  awe  in  my  grandfather's  library. 
They  were  my  symbol  of  Eternity.  Thirty  years 
in  the  United  States  Senate  seemed  such  a  long 
time. 

"  I  recommended  the  volumes  to  my  patient. 
Yesterday  he  informed  me  that  he  felt  differ 
ently  about  the  election.  He  talked  quite  ration 
ally  and  with  a  certain  detachment  that  was 
encouraging.  He  had  been  thinking,  he  said, 


i4o  A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

that  perhaps  thirty  years  after  nobody  would 
remember  who  gained  this  election.  A  great 
many  things,  he  said,  happen  in  this  country 
in  the  course  of  thirty  years  that  are  not  so  im 
portant  as  they  seem  at  the  time.  Indeed  the 
antipyretic  action  of  Benton's  book  was  so  great 
that  I  feared  that  he  might  be  cooled  down  too 
much,  so  that  as  a  corrective  I  administered  a 
tincture  of  Roosevelt 

**  I  have  a  patient  who  had  been  a  stock 
broker  and  had  retired,  hoping  to  enjoy  his 
leisure.  But  the  breaking-up  of  his  accustomed 
habits  of  thought  was  a  serious  matter.  His  one 
intellectual  exercise  had  been  following  the 
market,  and  when  there  was  no  market  for  him 
to  follow,  he  said  he  was  all  broken  up. 

uHe  came  to  me  for  advice  and  after  detail 
ing  his  symptoms  asked  if  I  could  n't  give  him 
a  bracer;  perhaps  I  could  recommend  a  rattling 
good  detective  story.  I  notice  that  a  large  num 
ber  of  my  patients  want  to  furnish  both  the 
diagnosis  and  the  treatment,  expecting  me  only 
to  furnish  a  favorable  prognosis.  I  am  told  by 
medical  friends  that  they  have  the  same  expe 
rience. 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC  141 

tt  I  sat  down  with  my  patient  and  talked  with 
him  about  occupational  diseases.  I  do  not  hold 
with  some  that  a  steady  occupation  is  a  disease. 
It  only  makes  one  liable  to  certain  maladies.  It 
upsets  the  original  balance  of  Nature.  You  know 
Shakespeare  says '  Goodness  growing  to  a  pleu 
risy  dies  in  his  own  too  much.'  Too-muchness 
in  one  direction  leads  to  not-enoughness  in 
another. 

***You  have  had  an  overdevelopment  of 
certain  virtues,  *  You  must  restore  the  balance. 
For  years  your  mind  has  been  on  die  jump.  It  is 
like  a  kitten  that  will  follow  a  mouse  or  a  string 
as  long  as  it  is  moving  rapidly.  You  have  been 
obsessed  with  the  idea  of  price,  and  when  you 
can't  learn  the  price  of  anything  you  think  that 
it  has  ceased  to  exist  It  is  as  if  you  had  spent 
all  your  life  in  a  one-price  *Jnjfcfr»g  store  where 
every  garment  had  a  tag  indicating  its  exact  value 
in  dollars  and  cents.  You  are  suddenly  ushered 
into  a  drawing-room  where  you  see  a  great 
many  coats  and  trousers  moving  about  without 
any  tags.  You  go  away  feeling  that  the  cloth 
ing  business  has  gone  to  pieces.  You  need  to 
learn  that  some  things  exist  that  are  not  for  sale. 


142          A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

Now  I  propose  a  thorough  emotional  reeduca 
tion.  Your  mind  has  been  interested  only  in 
rapidly  moving  objects  to  which  you,  at  each 
moment,  ascribe  a  specific  value.  I  want  to  turn 
your  mind  to  the  vague,  the  misty,  the  impon 
derable.  Each  day  you  are  to  take  exercises  in 
nebulosity.  You  are  to  float  away  into  a  realm 
where  being  and  not  being,  doing  and  not  doing, 
knowing  and  not  knowing  amount  to  very  much 
the  same  thing.' 

"My  patient  rebelled.  He  said  his  wife  had 
taken  him  once  to  a  lecture  on  the  Vedanta 
philosophy,  and  he  felt  that  his  constitution 
could  n't  stand  that  treatment. 

"'I  understand/  I  said.  'Orientalism  does  not 
agree  with  some  constitutions.  I  will  try  some 
thing  that  appeals  to  ancestral  feelings.' 

"  I  then  arranged  a  set  of  daily  exercises.  It 
was  based  on  the  principle  of  a  well-known 
teacher  of  longevity,  who  advises  that  we  masti 
cate  our  food  diligently  till  it  disappears  through 
involuntary  swallowing.  I  directed  the  patient 
to  fix  his  mind  on  the  price  of  his  favorite  stock, 
at  the  same  time  reading  aloud  a  chapter  of 
Ossian.  He  was  to  keep  this  up  till  the  thought 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC  143 

of  the  stock  disappeared  through  involuntary 
inattention. 

"  The  cure  is  slow,  but  is  progressing.  I  be 
gan  by  giving  the  patient  as  a  thought  to  hold, 
the  price  of  a  hundred  shares  of  New  York, 
New  Haven  and  Hartford  Railroad.  He  was  to 
hold  the  thought  as  he  paced  his  room,  inhaling 
deeply  and  reading, — 

"'A  tale  of  the  days  of  old,  the  deeds  of  the 
days  of  other  years. 

"'From  the  wood-skirted  fields  of  Lego  as 
cend  the  gray-bosomed  mists.  Wide  over  Lora's 
stream  is  poured  the  vapor  dark  and  deep.  The 
spirit  of  all  the  winds  strides  from  blast  to  blast, 
in  the  stormy  night.  A  sound  comes  from  the 
desert.  It  is  Conar,  King  of  Innisfail.  His  ghost 
sat  on  a  gray  ridge  of  smoke.' 

"'That  is  a  queer  thing  for  him  to  sit  on/ 
said  my  patient. 

"I  was  greatly  encouraged  by  this  remark. 
He  had  got  his  mind  off  the  stock.  The  cure 
was  working.  'Keep  your  eye  on  the  ghost/  I 
said.  'There  he  is — "with  bending  eyes  and 
dark  winding  locks  of  mist."' 

"After  half  an  hour  of  rhythmic  chanting,  I 


144          A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

found  that  his  anxieties  about  the  stock  market 
had  evaporated  in  an  Ossiamc  mist,  leaving  his 
mind  quite  cool  and  composed.  Yesterday  when 
I  made  a  professional  call,  I  found  him  reciting 
the  praise  of  Tel.  &  Tel. 

"'Dreams  descended  on  Larthon,  he  saw  seven 
spirits  of  his  fathers.  Son  of  Alpin  strike  the 
string.  Is  there  aught  of  joy  in  the  harp.  Pour  it 
on  the  soul  of  Ossian.  Green  thorn  of  the  hill 
of  ghosts,  that  shakest  thy  head  to  nightly  winds ! 
Do  you  touch  the  shadowy  harp  robed  with 
morning  mists,  when  the  rustling  sun  cornes 
forth  from  his  green-headed  waves/ 

"He  said  he  didn't  have  the  slightest  idea 
what  it  all  meant,  but  he  felt  better  for  reciting 
it.  He  saw  that  he  had  been  starved  for  this  sort 
of  thing.  There  was  something  misty  and  moist 
about  the  words.  He  liked  the  feel  of  them.  If 
I  had  n't  prescribed  Ossian,  he  might  have  taken 
to  futurism.  Shadowy  harps,  and  green-headed 
waves  and  gray  ghosts  sitting  on  a  ridge  of 
smoke  were  just  the  thoughts  he  needed.  They 
made  the  business  world  seem  so  much  less 
uncertain. 

"After  that,  I  had  a  little  talk  about  mental 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC  145 

hygiene.  '  What  you  said  about  the  moist  feel 
ing  of  the  words  is  very  true.  In  these  days  of 
artificial  heating  and  artificial  lighting,  we  keep 
our  minds  too  dry.  We  ought  to  have  a  spiritual 
hygrometer  and  consult  it.  While  our  conscious 
ness  may  be  all  right,  our  subconsciousness  suf 
fers  from  the  lack  of  humidity  in  our  mental 
atmosphere.  You  know  that  our  ancestors  were 
people  of  the  mists/  " 

Bagster  expounded  the  theory  of  literary  anti 
toxins.  "Each  age  has,"  he  said,  "its  peculiar 
malady.  There  is  one  point  on  which  everybody 
is  abnormal.  There  is  a  general  obsession  which 
affects  all  classes.  For  a  time,  everybody  thinks 
and  feels  in  a  certain  way — and  everybody  is 
wrong.  The  general  obsession  may  be  witch 
craft,  or  religious  persecution,  or  the  eternal 
necessity  of  war,  or  the  notion  that  we  can  get 
something  for  nothing.  Whatever  the  notion  is, 
everybody  has  it. 

"Ordinary  minds  succumb  to  the  epidemic. 
Unusually  strong  minds  overcome  the  toxic  ele 
ments  of  the  time  and  recover.  In  their  resist 
ance  they  produce  more  antitoxin  than  they  need 


146  A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

for  themselves.  This  can  be  used  for  the  benefit 
of  others. 

"  Thackeray  could  not  have  written  the  'Book 
of  Snobs,'  if  snobbery  had  not  been  a  malady 
of  his  time  which  it  required  a  special  effort  on 
his  part  to  overcome. 

"Plutarch's  'Lives'  is  a  powerful  antitoxin 
for  the  evils  of  imperialism.  But  Plutarch  lived 
when  the  Roman  Empire  was  at  its  height.  Plu 
tarch's  men  were  not  the  men  he  saw  around 
him.  They  stood  for  the  stern  republican  virtues 
which  were  most  opposed  to  the  tendencies  of 
his  age. 

"One  great  use  of  the  antitoxins  is  in  the 
treatment  of  various  forms  of  bigotry."  Bagster 
showed  me  a  cabinet  over  which  he  had  in 
scribed  the  prayer  of  Father  Taylor,  "O  Lord 
save  us  from  bigotry  and  bad  rum.  Thou  know- 
est  which  is  worse." 

He  had  shelves  labeled  —  Catholic  Bigotry, 
Protestant  Bigotry,  Conservative  Bigotry,  Pro 
gressive  Bigotry,  and  the  like.  "When  I  first 
began  to  treat  cases  of  this  kind  I  tried  to  intro 
duce  the  patient  to  some  excellent  person  of 
the  opposing  party  or  sect,  thinking  thus  to 


A  LITERARY  CLINIC  147 

counteract  the  unfavorable  impression  that  had 
been  formed.  But  I  soon  found  that  this  treat 
ment  was  based  on  a  mistake  and  only  aggravated 
the  symptoms.  A  bigot  is  defined  as  one  who  is 
illiberally  attached  to  an  opinion,  system,  or 
organization.  His  trouble  is  not  that  he  is  at 
tached  to  an  opinion,  but  only  that  he  is  illiber 
ally  attached.  My  aim,  therefore,  is  to  make  him 
liberally  attached.  To  that  end  I  try  to  make 
him  acquainted  with  the  actual  thoughts  of  the 
best  men  of  his  own  party  and  to  show  him  that 
his  inherited  opinions  are  much  more  reason 
able  than  he  had  supposed.  After  I  have  got 
my  patient  to  recognize  the  best  in  his  own 
party,  I  then  introduce  him  to  the  same  kind  of 
person  in  another  party.  At  least  that  is  my 

Plan-"  $+£ 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  I  asked,  "do  you  have 

many-patients  who  come  to  be  cured  of  their 
intolerance  *?  " 

"No,"  said  Bagster,  " people  very  seldom  come 
to  a  physician  unless  their  disease  causes  them 
some  pain.  Now,  intolerance  causes  no  pain  to 
the  intolerant  person.  It  is  the  other  fellow  who 
suffers." 


148  A  LITERARY  CLINIC 

"And  I  suppose  it  is  the  other  fellow  who 
complains?" 

"Yes,  generally,"  said  Bagster.  "The  fact  is 
that  most  persons  prefer  the  toxins  in  their  sys 
tem  to  the  antitoxins.  Before  you  can  do  much 
for  them,  you  must  overcome  their  prejudices." 

"But  in  this  case  the  prejudice  is  the  disease." 

"Yes,  and  the  getting  them  to  see  it  is  the 
treatment." 

Just  at  this  moment  Bagster  was  called  away 
by  a  patient  who  had  taken  an  overdose  of  war 
literature.  I  was  sorry,  because  I  wished  to  dis 
cuss  with  him  books  which  are  at  the  same  time 
stimulants  and  sedatives.  They  put  new  life  into 
us  and  then  set  the  life  pulse  strong  but  slow. 

Emerson  says, 

That  book  is  good 
Which  puts  me  in  a  working  mood. 
Unless  to  thought  is  added  will 
Apollo  is  an  imbecile. 

The  book  which  puts  us  in  a  working  mood 
is  one  which  we  are  never  able  to  read  through. 
We  start  to  read  it  and  it  puts  us  in  a  mood  to 
do  something  else.  We  cannot  sit  poring  over 
the  printed  page  when  our  work  seems  suddenly 


THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND     153 

Chapter  XVII.  But  this  is  merely  ecclesiastical 
usage.  You  are  told  that  in  Scotland  deacon  is 
the  title  of  the  president  of  an  incorporated  trade 
and  chairman  of  its  meetings.  But  all  this  does 
not  help  you  to  understand  the  next  definition 
—  "A  green  salted  hide  or  skin  weighing  not 
less  than  seven  pounds." 

In  Lagado  they  would  avoid  all  this  ambi 
guity.  The  gentleman  who  was  wishing  to  talk 
about  a  salted  hide  weighing  not  less  than  seven 
pounds  would  bring  one  with  him.  It  would  be 
evident  that  this  was  a  very  different  subject 
from  that  presented  in  the  form  of  an  officer  of 
the  church.  But  when  we  use  words  we  cannot 
judge  what  is  meant  except  by  the  context. 
And  the  context  being  formed  of  other  words 
which  are  also  multi-meaningful,  it  is  often  a 
case  of  the  blind  leading  the  blind. 

Sometimes  the  mind  falls  between  two  mean 
ings  and  suffers  a  serious  shock.  Take  such  a 
word  as  "law."  We  talk  of  natural  law,  the 
laws  of  health,  the  laws  of  Missouri,  international 
law.  I  have  heard  an  earnest  clergyman  exhort 
his  hearers  to  obey  a  law  of  nature — as  if  they 
could  do  otherwise.  He  had  passed  from  the  idea 


154    THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 

of  law  as  a  rule  of  conduct  prescribed  by  author 
ity,  and  which  we  are  bound  to  obey,  to  law  as  a 
proposition  which  expresses  the  constant  or  regu 
lar  order  of  certain  phenomena.  I  can  break  the 
laws  of  the  commonwealth,  and  if  I  am  found 
out  the  penalties  provided  for  such  action  may 
be  visited  upon  me.  But  if  I  willfully  jump  off 
a  cliff  I  do  not  break  the  law  of  gravitation.  I 
only  illustrate  it.  The  consequences,  however 
painful  to  me,  are  not  of  the  nature  of  legal 
penalty. 

A  word  will  often  carry  associations  from  one 
sphere  into  another.  To  the  ordinary  American 
the  Monroe  Doctrine  carries  with  it  a  certain 
authority  and  sanctity.  It  comes  from  the  word 
"doctrine,"  which  he  associates  with  religion 
rather  than  with  politics.  A  doctrine  is  something 
to  be  believed,  and  publicly  professed.  The 
American  is  a  professor  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine. 
It  is  a  part  of  a  creed  that  must  be  accepted  as 
a  test  of  membership.  He  may  not  understand  it, 
but  he  should  not  be  skeptical  in  regard  to  it. 
Suppose,  instead  of  calling  it  the  "Monroe  Doc 
trine,"  we  should  call  it  the  "Monroe  Policy." 
Immediately  his  mental  attitude  would  be  altered. 


THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND     155 

He  passes  out  of  what  the  theologians  call  "dog 
matics  "  into  a  region  of  free  thought.  A  policy 
is  something  that  can  be  changed  to  fit  the 
times. 

There  are  purists  who  have  a  superstitious 
veneration  for  the  dictionary.  To  them  the  lexi-  \ 
cographer  is  a  priest  who  by  the  authority  vested 
in  him  joins  together  the  word  and  its  meaning 
in  indissoluble  wedlock.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
is  only  a  gossip  who  observes  the  doings  of 
words.  His  respect  for  "good  usage,"  which  so 
often  imposes  on  us,  is  based  on  nothing  more 
than  "  they  say."  They  say  that  a  certain  word 
and  a  certain  meaning  are  "  keeping  steady  com 
pany."  How  long  it  will  keep  up  nobody  knows. 

The  stories  of  the  flirtation  of  words  collected 
by  inquisitive  philologists  fill  huge  volumes.  A 
literal-minded  person  is  filled  with  consterna 
tion  over  the  record  of  verbal  inconstancy.  One 
hardly  sees  how  a  single  word  could  take  up 
with  so  many  meanings. 

It  is  when  we  come  to  moral  decision  that  the 
great  difficulty  of  verbal  indefiniteness  is  most 
keenly  felt.  We  are  all  the  time  passing  judg 
ment  on  matters  of  conduct.  We  try  to  express 


iS6    THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 

that  most  fundamental  of  all  judgments — the 
difference  between  right  and  wrong.  But  while 
the  moral  sense  is  the  most  distinctive  thing  in 
normal  human  beings,  its  specific  judgments 
are  most  bewilderingly  contradictory.  We  ap 
peal  to  conscience  as  the  arbitrator,  and  we  find 
the  dictates  of  conscience  leading  to  continual 
strife.  Using  the  same  moral  formula  peoples  of 
different  training  and  temper  come  to  the  most 
opposite  conclusions.  And  the  further  civiliza 
tion  advances  and  the  more  various  our  experi 
ence,  the  more  the  chances  of  misunderstanding 
increase. 

When  a  new  thought  comes  we  do  not  coin 
a  new  word  to  express  it;  we  take  an  old  word, 
and  give  it  a  new  shade  of  meaning,  to  the  in 
creasing  confusion  of  the  simple-minded.  For 
the  old  meaning  is  not  discarded ;  it  still  survives 
and  at  any  moment  may  assert  itself. 

Now,  when  thoughts  are  changing  and  the 
words  remain  the  same,  the  break  between  them 
may  have  disastrous  consequences.  Sometimes 
it  seems  as  if  the  whole  fabric  of  modern  civiliza 
tion  were  a  Babel  tower  destined  to  be  ruined 
because  of  the  difficulty  of  making  the  work- 


THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND     157 

men  understand  one  another.  The  complexity 
and  magnitude  of  the  task  is  not  matched  by 
flexibility  of  language. 

What  shall  we  do  when  we  become  conscious 
of  this  confusion  of  tongues^  One  way  is  to 
turn  our  backs  on  modern  civilization  and  try 
to  return,  intellectually  and  morally,  to  the  sim 
ple  life.  In  that  case  we  shall  try  like  the  La- 
gadians  to  limit  our  thoughts  to  things  which  we 
are  able  to  grasp. 

In  this  insistence  on  simplicity  we  see  a  curious 
similarity  between  idealists  like  Tolstoy  and  the 
militarists  and  commercialists  whom  they  ab 
horred.  They  alike  felt  the  necessity  of  revers 
ing  the  order  of  evolution.  Instead  of  progress 
from  the  homogeneous  to  the  heterogeneous, 
they  would  move  from  the  heterogeneous  to 
the  homogeneous.  Their  world  should  be  all 
of  a  piece.  They  would  eliminate  all  that  in 
terfered  with  its  self-consistency. 

The  militarist  would  bring  his  nation  to  the 
utmost  state  of  preparedness  for  war.  To  this  end 
he  would  sacrifice  personal  liberty,  all  those  moral 
ideas  which  might  interfere  with  the  sole  end 
of  national  organization.  The  man  of  business 


158     THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 

would  make  equal  sacrifices  for  his  ideal  of  ab 
solute  efficiency.  The  idealist  who  works  for 
peace  as  often  conceives  it  with  equal  sim 
plicity.  It  is  a  beautiful  state  to  be  attained  by 
a  return  to  primitive  conditions  of  life. 

But  there  is  another  way  effacing  the  modern 
world.  Recognizing  the  fact  that  it  is  becoming 
increasingly  complicated,  we  may  accept  that 
complexity  as  involved  in  the  evolutionary 
process.  What  we  need  to  do  is  to  adjust  our 
selves  to  the  complex  realities.  Our  progress 
must  be  along  the  line  of  further  inventions. 
There  are  difficult  tasks  which  await  us;  we  must 
invent  labor-saving  machinery  that  will  enable 
us  to  do  quickly  and  effectively  that  which  must 
be  done. 

The  sense  of  bewilderment  which  charac 
terizes  our  time  is  explained  by  our  lack  of 
modem  conveniences  for  thinking.  We  are 
without  sufficient  tools  for  our  large  and  cooper 
ative  work. 

One  great  invention,  which  has  perhaps  done 
more  than  any  other  to  expedite  human  com 
munication,  has  been  only  partially  followed 
out,  —  the  invention  of  the  alphabet. 


THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND     159 

Men  were,  indeed,  able  to  read  long  before 
they  conceived  the  idea  of  an  alphabet.?  Picture- 
writing  must  have  occurred  to  a  great  many 
minds  independently.  It  was  not  very  different 
from  the  Lagadian  method  of  communication. 
Instead  of  sending  a  thing  to  one  at  a  distance, 
it  would  be  a  saving  in  labor  to  send  a  rude 
picture  of  the  object.  The  further  development 
of  the  idea  was  inevitable.  The  pictures  could 
be  conventionalized  and  combined.  Not  only 
nouns  and  verbs,  but  other  parts  of  speech  could 
be  indicated  in  pictograms.  But  though  picture- 
writing  answered  very  well  for  a  simple  state  of 
society  where  the  thoughts  to  be  communicated 
were  very  few,  it  became  increasingly  difficult  as 
the  number  of  words  to  be  written  increased. 
For  each  word,  or  at  least  syllable,  had  to  have 
a  symbol  of  its  own.  Reading  and  writing  be 
came  very  difficult.  There  were  so  many  sym 
bols  to  learn  and  remember. 

Then  came  the  epoch-making  discovery  of 
the  alphabet.  It  represents  a  triumph  of  analy 
sis  and  synthesis.  It  was  found1  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  make  a  picture  at  all.  The  sounds 
of  the  language  were  distinguished  and  reduced 


160    THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 

to  a  very  few  elements.  These  phonetic  elements 
were  indicated  by  certain  letters.  Once  having 
learned  the  value  of  the  letters,  they  could  be 
put  together  in  any  way  that  might  be  desired. 
Even  in  our  imperfect  alphabet  we  can  with 
twenty-six  letters  form  all  the  words  that  are  in 
our  language.  If  we  desire  to  make  new  words, 
the  same  letters  can  be  used.  There  is  no  con 
fusion.  Even  a  child  can  do  it.  Of  course  a  child 
cannot  learn  the  alphabet  as  quickly  as  he  can 
learn  to  read  a  few  simple  words  without  spell 
ing.  If  you  wish  him  to  recognize  the  word 
"cat,"  it  is  not  necessary  that  he  should  pain 
fully  spell  our  c-a-t.  Write  the  word  beside  a 
picture  of  a  cat  and  he  sees  the  point.  Likewise 
dog  and  rat  and  other  animals  may  he  recog 
nized  in  this  pictorial  way  without  any  strain  on 
the  power  of  analysis. 

But  the  difficulty  comes  when  you  pass  from 
these  simplicities  to  more  complex  actualities. 
Suppose,  instead  of  "cat"  you  write  it  "act." 
There  is  a  family  resemblance  between  the  two 
written  forms.  The  child  naturally  infers  that 
"act"  is  a  different  kind  of  a  cat. 

Then  you  must  confront  him  with  the  highly 


THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND     161 

intellectual  task  of  spelling.  The  child  sees  each 
letter  standing  in  its  integrity.  A  has  a  sound 
of  its  own  and  so  has  C  and  so  has  T.  These 
letters  will  join  in  spelling  "cat,"  but  they  have 
no  prejudices  in  favor  of  such  a  combination. 
They  will  just  as  readily  join  with  other  letters 
to  form  any  other  animal.  These  vowels  and 
consonants  have  no  preferences  that  prevent 
them  from  making  any  word  that  may  happen 
to  be  needed.  But  whatever  company  they  are 
in,  they  have  a  value  of  their  own. 

If  we  are  to  emerge  from  our  moral  and  intel 
lectual  confusion,  we  must  extend  further  the 
principle  of  the  alphabet.  In  the  decisions  of 
the  questions  that  most  concern  us,  we  are  still 
in  the  stage  of  picture-writing.  We  are,  strictly 
speaking,  illiterates.  We  recognize  symbols  and 
pictures;  but  we  do  not  know  our  letters,  and  we 
cannot  put  them  together.  Our  moral  education 
has  not  reached  the  alphabetic  style  of  culture. 

For  the  child  the  pictorial  method  is  necessary. 
He  is  not  capable  of  forming  abstract  ideas  or 
of  becoming  interested  in  them.  For  him  seeing 
is  the  only  kind  of  believing.  It  is  in  vain  to  de 
fine  goodness,  but  he  knows  a  good  man.  His 


1 62     THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 

father  is  a  good  man,  and  in  a  lesser  degree  his 
uncles  and  cousins,  the  degree  of  goodness  vary 
ing  inversely  as  the  distance  of  the  relationship. 
All  sorts  of  admirable  qualities  may  be  recog 
nized  in  his  family  and  neighborhood.  These 
virtuous  people  form  excellent  illustrations  of 
ethical  truths.  They  serve  to  show  him  pictures 
of  goodness. 

Now,  if  he  were  always  to  remain  with  these 
people,  there  would  be  no  reason  why  these  pic 
tures  should  not  suffice  for  his  moral  expression. 
When  the  well-meaning  person  was  confined 
to  dealing  with  his  own  clan,  this  method  did 
suffice. 

But  the  modern  man  has  been  emancipated. 
He  is  compelled  to  meet  all  sorts  of  people.  In 
a  democracy  he  must,  in  order  to  deal  justly, 
take  upon  himself  responsibilities  that  once  were 
reserved  for  statesmen.  He  must  get  into  right 
relations,  not  with  a  few  neighbors,  but  with  a 
vast  variety  of  persons  and  situations. 

By  those  of  old  time  we  have  been  told  of 
the  duties  we  owe  to  our  neighbors:  but  the 
question,  Who  is  my  neighbor?  comes  with  the 
startling  sense  of  novelty.  We  have  so  many 


THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND     163 

new  neighbors.  We  have  pictures  in  our  minds 
of  admirable  characters— the  brave,  the  true, 
the  just,  the  generous.  Our  soldiers  are  brave. 
Our  hearts  thrill  as  we  think  of  their  daring  deeds 
of  loyalty.  But  are  we  able  to  recognize  the 
brave  man  who  does  not  wear  our  uniform?  Can 
we  recognize  a  brave  enemy?  A  martyr  is  a 
man  who  dies  for  what  he  conceives  to  be  the 
truth.  We  have  visions  of  the  noble  army  of 
martyrs.  But  these  faithful  witnesses  all  seem  to 
agree  with  us.  They  are  the  people  who  died  for 
the  things  we  believe  in.  But  what  of  those 
whose  opinions  did  not  coincide  with  ours? 
They  died  for  ideas  which  do  not  commend 
themselves  to  us.  Do  they  belong  to  the  noble 
army?  The  fact  is  we  are  able  to  recognize  a 
few  combinations  that  have  been  made  familiar 
to  us.  But  we  are  not  able  to  read  at  sight  the 
characters  that  pass  before  us  with  such  bewil 
dering  rapidity.  To  know  a  good  man  when  we 
see  him  is  not  easy,  if  he  happens  to  come  from 
a  different  neighborhood,  and  have  strange  man 
ners,  or  wear  outlandish  clothes. 

The   old-fashioned   spelling-match   used   to 
begin  tamely  with  words  of  one  or  two  syllables 


1 64     THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 

which  the  least  unskilled  could  master;  then  it 
rapidly  mounted  to  words  never  used  in  common 
speech  but  which  were  the  alpine  summits  of 
orthography.  Those  who  had  fallen  by  the  way 
looked  up  admiringly  at  the  mountaineers  scal 
ing  polysyllabic  pinnacles.  How  surprising  were 
the  adventures  and  misadventures.  One  might 
mount  to  the  summit  of  Sesquipedality  and  yet 
on  his  return  to  the  lower  level  fall  into  a  cre 
vasse  that  yawned  between  e  and  i. 

In  a  moral  spelling-match  it  would  not  be 
necessary  to  give  out  any  but  the  most  familiar 
words,  for  we  are  all  beginners  and  are  easily 
confused.  Spell  "  Christian  virtue."  How  many 
eager  hands  are  upraised  —  theological  profes- 
'  sors,  preachers  orthodox  and  liberal,  devout 
church  members,  philosophers,  historians ! 

How  many  ways  they  spell  it!  There  seems 
to  be  no  agreement  as  to  the  elements  of  which 
it  is  composed.  Wherein  does  Christian  virtue 
differ  from  any  other  kind  of  virtue  ? 

Several  years  ago  I  happened  to  be  on  a  com 
mittee  to  arrange  the  programme  of  a  conven 
tion  interested  in  practical  religion.  We  had  a 
morning  devoted  to  Christian  ideals  in  business. 


THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND     165 

We  wished  to  have  speak  to  us  a  number  of 
business  men  who  had  been  successful  in  doing 
business  in  accordance  with  the  Golden  Rule. 
They  would  tell  us  their  experience.  A  number 
of  names  were  suggested  by  different  members 
of  the  committee.  When  the  names  were  all  in, 
the  chairman  remarked,  "  Gentlemen,  has  it  oc 
curred  to  you  that  all  these  Christians  are 
Jews?" 

It  reminded  me  of  the  embarrassment  which 
must'  have  come  to  ?  those  who  asked,  Who 
is  our  neighbor  ?  and  were  told  the  story  of  the 
man  who  had  fallen  among  thieves.  It  was  a 
beautiful  story  and  illustrated  precisely  what 
they  had  been  taught  to  recognize  as  that  which 
was  most  characteristic  in  Hebrew  virtue.  How 
irritating,  when  their  moral  sentiments  were 
flowing  in  the  traditional  channel,  to  have  a 
complexity  added  —  he  was  a  Samaritan.  They 
could  recognize  a  good  Jew.  It  formed  a  fa 
miliar  picture.  But  a  good  Samaritan — that 
was  no  picture  at  all.  And  they  did  not  know 
how  to  spell. 

For  the  good  Jew  to  recognize  the  existence 
of  the  good  Samaritan  involved  a  moral  reedu- 


1 66    THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 

cation.  He  must  set.  free  the  idea  of  goodness 
from  the  idea  of  nationality  with  which  it  had 
been  invariably  connected.  He  must  do  what 
the  printer  does  when  he  distributes  the  type. 
They  have  printed  to-day's  news.  To-morrow 
the  same  letters  in  different  combinations  must 
print  quite  different  words.  Many  persons  have 
no  facilities  for  distributing  moral  type.  Early 
in  life  their  minds  are  made  up.  Henceforth  all 
their  impressions  are  made  from  stereotyped 
plates. 

Not  being  able  to  express  these,  new  choices 
in  the  stereotyped  form,  they  cease  to  think  of 
them  as  having  any  moral  significance.  The 
man  was  an  idealist  in  his  youth.  Now  he  is  com 
pelled  to  conform  to  what  he  considers  an  un 
moral  world.  Conscious  of  the  increasing  dis 
crepancy  between  his  practice  and  his  principles, 
he  becomes  either  a  cynic  or  a  sentimentalist. 
His  conscience  only  makes  him  querulous.  In 
his  judgment  of  other  people  he  is  bitter.  He 
has  a  definite  picture  of  what  they  ought  to  be. 
Their  lack  of  correspondence  to  that  mental 
picture  is  an  evidence  of  their  hypocrisy. 

The  man  with  the  alphabetical  mind  is  able 


THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND     167 

to  deal  with  the  actual  world  much  more  steadily 
and  effectively.  His  moral  ideals  are  not  in  a 
glutinous  mass,  adhering  to  some  concrete  form. 
They  are  easily  detachable.  He  recognizes  a  few 
elements  which  always  retain  the  same  values, 
but  which  may  unite  to  form  all  sorts  of  com 
pounds. 

When  he  admires  sincerity,  he  has  recognized 
a  distinct  moral  value.  He  speaks  of  a  sincere 
friend,  but  in  precisely  the  same  way  he  ac 
knowledges  the  sincerity  of  his  enemy.  The 
man  is  mistaken,  but  he  is  sincerely  mistaken. 
There  is  a  sincere  believer  and  an  equally  sin 
cere  skeptic.  The  two  have  much  more  in 
common  than  they  realize.  The  quality  of  sin 
cerity  manifests  itself  differently  in  a  man  of 
science  and  in  an  artist,  but  it  is  essentially  the 
same  virtue.  Now,  sincerity  is  always  admirable 
in  itself,  but  it  is  only  a  single  letter  in  the  moral 
alphabet,  and  it  may  be  used  in  spelling  many 
unpleasant  words. 

A  bigot  is  often  sincere  and  so  is  a  prig. 
One  may  heartily  acknowledge  their  good  quali 
ties  and  yet  be  sincerely  desirous  of  avoiding 
their  company. 


1 68     THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 

Moralists  have  a  way  of  treating  certain  vir 
tues  or  vices  as  if  they  were  inseparable.  The/ 
tell  us,  for  example,  that  a  bully  is  always  a 
coward  while  the  brave  are  the  gentle.  Such 
combinations  form  pictures  that  are  easily  rec 
ognizable.  But,  unfortunately,  it  is  not  safe  to 
judge  human  nature  in  this  pictorial  fashion. 
The  next  bully  we  meet  may  not  be  so  easily 
scared  as  we  should  desire.  He  may  be  of  the 
courageous  variety. 

A  man  may  be  learned  and  yet  lacking  in 
common  sense.  He  may  be  selfish,  efficient, 
narrow-minded,  enthusiastic,  devout,  good-na 
tured,  healthy,  and  affectionate.  And  he  may 
exhibit  these  traits  singly  or  in  any  conceiv 
able  combination.  He  may  be  a  genuine  phil 
anthropist  addicted  to  sharp  dealing.  He  may 
be  a  mystic,  hard  and  cruel.  He  may  be  a 
saint  with  a  rich  vein  of  humor.  In  short,  you 
can  never  tell  what  he  is  till  you  know  him 
intimately. 

In  passing  sweeping  judgments  we  may  see 
one  characteristic  and  then  around  it  we  build 
a  character  to  match.  We  have  an  elaborate 
set  of  inferences  which  are  usually  wrong  in 


THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND     169 

proportion  as  they  are  logical.  It  is  so  much 
easier  to  condemn  than  to  understand.  The 
conscience  staggers  along  under  a  load  of  in- 
discriminating  judgments.  It  is  the  lazy  man's 
burden. 

To  come  down  from  the  judgment  seat  and 
take  our  place  in  the  spelling-class  is  a  sore 
trial  to  our  pride.  We  have  no  longer  a  chance 
for  that  splendid,  confident  dogmatism  which 
is  so  becoming  to  us.  Our  pictures  of  faultless 
heroes  and  utterly  wicked  foes  lose  their  sym 
metry.  We  are  not  so  sure  of  ourselves  as  we 
should  like  to  be,  and  we  come  upon  many 
facts  that  pain  us.  If  we  had  our  own  way,  we 
should  not  acknowledge  their  existence;  but 
we  are  not  allowed  to  have  our  own  way.  We 
must  spell  the  hard  words  that  are  given  out,  or 
else  go  to  the  foot  of  the  class. 

Spelling  is  a  difficult  business  and  familiar 
words  have  a  strange  look  when  we  analyze 
them.  Sometimes  when  we  take  a  word  apart 
it  seems  impossible  to  get  it  together  again. 
We  have  to  use  our  minds.  It  's  not  nearly  so 
nice  as  the  old  way  of  looking  at  pictures  and 
being  told  what  they  mean.  But  the  teacher 


170    THE  ALPHABETICAL  MIND 

says  that  if  we  keep  at  it  and  really  learn  to 
spell,  then  we  can  take  up  the  big  book  for  our 
selves  and  tell  what  it  means.  Before  we  are 
able  to  read  freely  we  must  learn  our  letters. 


THE  GREGARIOUSNESS   OF   MINOR 
POETS 


BY  natural  disposition  and  by  habit  of  life 
a  poet  is  the  least  gregarious  of  human 
creatures.  He  flourishes  in  what  Milton  de 
scribes  as  "a  pleasing  solitariness."  Novelists 
and  historians  must  be,  in  some  sort,  men  of  the 
world.  They  must  frequent  courts  and  draw 
ing-rooms  and  all  sorts  of  public  gatherings  in 
order  to  collect  material  for  their  work.  They 
are  traffickers  in  other  men's  ideas,  and  they 
must  be  good  mixers. 

But  when  the  poet  is  "  hidden  in  the  light 
of  thought,"  it  is  his  own  thought  If  it  is  dif 
ferent  from  other  men's  thought,  all  the  better. 
It  adds  to  the  fascinating  mystery  of  his  per 
sonality.  The  highest  praise  we  can  give  him  is 
the  acknowledgment  that  he  has  had  some  gift 
that  was  all  his  own.  "  His  soul  was  like  a  star 
and  dwelt  apart."  It  is  possible  for  him  to  do 


172    THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

his  best  work  while  dwelling  apart,  for  his  busi 
ness  is  not  to  interpret  other  men's  moods,  but 
his  own. 

Clergymen  are  inclined,  when  they  have 
opportunity,  to  flock  together  in  presbyteries 
and  conferences,  associations  and  convocations. 
After  preaching  to  their  congregations  on  Sun 
day  they  frequent  ministers'  meetings  on  Mon 
day,  where  they  address  one  another.  Theodore 
Parker  used  to  lament  this  habit,  to  which  he 
ascribed  some  of  the  faults  of  his  brethren. 
Ministers,  he  declared,  are  like  cabbages;  they 
do  not  head  well  when  they  are  planted  too 
close  together.  But  though  clerical  gregarious- 
ness  may  be  carried  to  an  excess,  a  certain 
amount  of  it  is  necessary  to  the  successful  car 
rying  on  of  the  profession.  Among  the  higher 
clergy  the  solitary  habit  would  be  obviously 
impracticable.  When  Lord  Westbury  was  asked 
what  were  the  duties  of  an  archdeacon  he  an 
swered:  "The  duties  of  an  archdeacon  consist 
in  the  performance  of  arch-diaconal  functions." 
Now  it  is  evident  that  these  arch-diaconal  func 
tions  cannot  be  performed  except  in  connection 
with  an  ecclesiastical  body.  No  one,  however 


MINOR  POETS  173 

gifted,  could   be  an  archdeacon   on  his  own 
hook. 

So  a  lawyer  must  be  a  member  of  the  bar  in 
order  to  practice  his  profession.  The  physician 
must  be  in  good  standing  in  the  Medical  So 
ciety.  A  plumber  cannot  act  as  a  mere  indi 
vidual.  He  does  not  appear  like  the  solitary 
horseman  in  the  romances.  He  is  a  recognized 
duality.  When  we  send  for  a  plumber  we  ex 
pect  to  see  two.  A  pleasing  solitariness  is  not 
allowed  in  his  working  hours. 

.  But  a  poet  does  not  need  other  poets  to  bear 
him  company  or  to  complete  his  work.  He  does 
not  need  a  congregation  to  inspire  him.  He 
comes  alone  to  his  chosen  reader.  It  is  a  case 
where  two  is  company  and  three  is  a  crowd. 

The  transitory  nature  of  his  inspiration  adds 
to  this  tendency  to  solitariness  on  the  part  of  the 
poet.  It  is  not  easy  for  him  to  keep  business 
hours,  or  make  contracts  for  work  to  be  finished 
at  a  given  time.  His  productive  energy  is 
inconstant.  The  product  of  industry  can  be 
counted  upon  and  can  be  delivered  when  prom 
ised.  But  the  poetry  which  is  the  product  of  in 
dustry  is  worthless.  All  the  value  is  that  which 


174    THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

comes  from  some  unpredictable  felicity  of  mooo. 
Now  and  then  a  poetical  thought  comes,  and 
under  the  impulse  of  the  moment  he  puts  it 
into  words  that  are  really  much  better  than  he 
could  have  contrived  if  he  had  labored  for  them. 
There  is  a  sudden  snatch  of  real  song,  a  phrase 
or  two  that  are  unforgettable.  No  one  seems 
able  to  do  these  things  every  day.  It  is  a  great 
good  fortune  to  be  able  to  do  them  sometimes. 
A  person  who  is  subject  to  such  accidents  we 
call  a  poet. 

Sometimes  the  poet  attempts  to  meet  the  man 
of  affairs  on  his  own  ground,  and  do  business 
according  to  the  accepted  rules.  He  is  usually 
mortified  by  his  inability  to  "deliver  the  goods." 
In  the  Book  of  Numbers  there  is  an  illuminat 
ing  story  of  such  an  attempt  to  control  poetic 
inspiration.  The  poet  Balaam  had  gained  a  con 
siderable  reputation  among  the  Moabitish  tribes 
for  his  fine  flow  of  maledictory  verse.  When 
Balak  had  become  alarmed  over  the  progress 
of  the  invading  Israelites,  he  bethought  him 
of  Balaam  and  his  gifts.  "And  Balak  offered 
sheep  and  oxen  and  sent  them  to  Balaam." 
But  when  Balak  waited  for  the  outburst  of 


MINOR  POETS  175 

rhythmical  invective  which  he  had  paid  for  he 
was  disappointed.  Instead  of  curses  Balaam's 
words  turned  out  to  be  blessings  of  no  value 
whatever  to  his  employer.  Instead  of  living  up 
to  his  contract  Balaam  "  went  not  as  at  the  other 
times  to  meet  with  enchantments,  but  he  set  his 
face  toward  the  wi  Iderness."  It  was  the  wild  nature 
of  the  poet  asserting  itself. 

Balaam  sang  his  song  in  his  own  way  without 
regard  to  his  contract,  and  no  wonder  that  Balak 
was  indignant.  "Balak's  anger  was  kindled 
against  Balaam  and  he  smote  his  hands  together 
and  Balak  said  unto  Balaam:  I  called  thee  to 
curse  mine!  enemies! and  behold  thou  hast 
blessed  them  altogether  these  three  times.  There 
fore  now  flee  thou  to  thy  place.  I  thought  to 
promote  thee  unto  great  honor,  but  lo,  the  Lord 
hath  kept  thee  back  from  honor." 

The  story  of  the  parting  of  the  man  of  affairs 
and  the  poet  is  one  that  has  been  repeated  many 
times.  "And  Balaam  rose  up  and  went  and  re 
turned  to  his  own  place ;  and  Balak  also  went 
his  way." 

In  his  natural  state  the  poet  accepts  the  situa 
tion  cheerfully.  He  sets  his  face  toward  the  wil- 


176     THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

derness  which  he  loves,  and  is  content  with  the 
inspiration  which  may  come.  But  now  and  then 
among  the  minor  poets  there  comes  a  change  of 
temper  that  is  most  remarkable.  The  minor  poet 
forgets  his  individuality  and  becomes  gregarious. 
He  is  no  longer  content  with  casual  inspiration 
and  intermittent  illuminations.  He  must  be  up 
and  doing.  He  must  cooperate.  He  must  find 
those  whose  spiritual  impulses  synchronize  with 
his  own.  He  must  choose  a  name  which  shall 
designate  those  who  belong  to  his  school.  Above 
all,  he  must  educate  the  general  public  to  ap 
preciate  the  product  of  cooperative  genius. 

In  indicating  that  this  sudden  gregarious  ten 
dency  is  most  observable  among  minor  poets 
no  disparagement  is  intended.  The  term  "minor 
poet,"  like  that  of  minor  prophet,  refers  to  the 
quantity  rather  than  the  quality  of  the  work 
done.  Amos  was  not  less  a  prophet  than  Ezekiel. 
His  book  is  not  so  large,  that  is  all.  This  in  a 
literary  man  may  sometimes  be  an  added  claim 
to  our  regard.  Gold  is  gold,  whether  found  in 
the  mother  lode  or  in  a  slender  vein.  Some  of 
the  best  poetry  is  the  work  of  minor  poets  who 
left  no  complete  poetical  works.  They  have  not 


MINOR  POETS  177 

created  much,  but  they  have  given  some  words 
which  are  priceless.  Who  does  not  know  the  slen 
der  little  volume  that  comes  unheralded?  Is  so 
modest  that  it  makes  little  demand  upon  time 
or  shelf  room?  And  yet  many  a  bulky  volume 
has  less  worth.  It  is  the  individual  offering  of 
the  minor  poet  in  his  unsophisticated  days. 
Later  on  a  bit  of  his  work  might  slip  into  a 
place  in  the  anthologies.  That  is  a  post-mortem 
honor. 

But  when  the  minor  poet  becomes  class-con 
scious,  he  is  ambitious  to  make  his  first  appear 
ance  in  an  anthology.  He  will  not  go  alone  up 
a  footpath  to  Parnassus,  if  he  can  climb  into  an 
omnibus  with  his  mates.  The  more  the  merrier. 
When  the  gregarious  instinct  is  in  control  we 
no  longer  are  conscious  of  the  appeal  of  a  single 
person.  A  company  of  new  poets  appears  in  a 
body  and  insists  on  the  right  of  collective  bar 
gaining  for  our  admiration.  We  must  accept  the 
New  Poetry  that  bears  the  Union  label,  or  face, 
the  consequences. 

Now  in  joining  the  union,  and  merging  him 
self  with  a  group,  however  excellent,  the  new 
poet  is,  I  think,  ill-advised.  There  are  some 


1 78     THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

things  which  .cannot  be  done  cooperatively,  and 
poetry  is  one  of  them.  It  cannot  be  standardized 
or  promoted.  In  fact  there  is  very  little  that  can 
be  done  about  it  except  enjoy  it  when  it  comes. 

There  is  nothing  more  delightful  than  the  dis 
covery  of  a  new  poet,  unless  it  is  the  recovery 
of  an  old  one.  We  are  eager  to  hear  a  fresh, 
unspoiled  voice  and  to  be  cheered  by  a  varia 
tion  on  familiar  themes.  That  in  which  he  dis 
tinctly  differs  from  those  who  preceded  him  is 
his  peculiar  merit.  He  comes  with  the  dew  of 
the  morning  upon  him. 

If  it  should  happen  that  at  about  the  same 
time  another  new  poet  should  turn  up  that  would 
be  a  happy  coincidence.  There  is  always  room 
in  the  upper  story  for  such  rare  visitants.  Half 
a  dozen  new  poets  appearing  simultaneously 
would  awaken  surprise.  Still  it  would  not  be 
miraculous.  Such  things  have  happened.  But  the 
point  is  that  each  newcomer  must  stand  on  his 
own  feet  and  do  his  work  in  his  own  way.  His 
welcome  must  be  all  his  own.  The  fact  that  he 
appears  at  the  same  time  with  others  is  only  an 
accident. 

The  new  poet  is  at  his  best  before  he  has  been 


MINOR  POETS  179 

sophisticated  by  too  much  intercourse  with  men 
of  his  own  craft.  We  love  to  watch  him  going 
his  care-free  way,  unmindful  of  the  Duties  of 
the  Hour  or  the  Idols  of  the  Tribe.  He  is  like 
the  shepherd  in  Lycidas  who,  when  he  had  sung 
his  song, 

twitched  his  mantle  blue 
To-morrow  for  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

It  was  the  quick  gesture  of  one  conscious  of  the 
need  neither  of  audience  nor  collaborators. 

It  is  a  sad  day  for  the  new  poet  when  he  hears 
the  call  of  his  kind  and  becomes  conscious  that 
he  has  a  duty  to  perform  for  his  fellow  poets  in 
explaining  and  defending  their  innovations.  In 
dedicating  his  talents  to  the  service  of  the  group 
he  is  guilty  of  futile  self-sacrifice.  He  loses  his 
first  sense  of  irresponsible  freedom,  and  after  a 
few  years  he  becomes  a  conscientious  copyist  of 
his  own  early  manner,  and  an  apologist  for  the 
manner  of  his  coevals.  The  murderer  who  re 
visits  the  scene  of  his  crime  has  at  least  the  salu 
tary  experience  of  remorse.  But  the  poet  who 
continually  revisits  the  scene  of  his  early  suc 
cess  has  no  spiritual  gain;  and  he  is  kept  away 
from  fresh  woods. 


i8o    THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

The  gang  spirit  'has  its  uses,  but  there  are 
spheres  in  which  it  does  not  make  for  the 
highest  excellency.  A  single  saint  is  admir 
able,  but  who  would  not  flee  from  a  gang  of 
saints,  eager  to  impose  their  peculiar  type  of 
piety  upon  the  community?  I  read  of  a 
medieval  saint  who,  when  he  was  invited  to  a 
rich  man's  table,  united  courtesy  and  asceticism 
by  partaking  of  the  food  set  before  him,  but  at 
the  same  time  unostentatiously  sprinkling  the 
rich  viands  with  ashes.  This  was  admirable.  But 
if  I  were  a  rich  man  I  should  not  like  to  enter 
tain  a  dozen  saints  who  would  bring  their  ash- 
shakers  to  my  table.  I  should  find  their  man 
nerism  offensive. 

The  Hebrew  prophets  whose  words  have 
come  down  to  us  were  thorough  individualists. 
They  were  solitary  in  their  habit  and  spoke 
their  words  whether  men  heard  or  whether  they 
forbore.  But  there  were  bands  who  were  called 
"  the  sons  of  the  prophets/'  These  men  made  a 
profession  of  prophetism  and  wandered  about 
prophesying  collectively.  We  do  not,  however, 
hear  of  any  great  utterance  coming  from  these 
organizations.  It  is  the  same  with  the  sons  of 


MINOR  POETS  181 

the  poets  who  form  schools  and  coteries,  and 
who  are  dependent  on  mutual  support.  The  co 
operative  effort  seems  to  do  little  for  the  pro 
duction  of  the  kind  of  poetry  which  the  world 
does  "  not  willingly  let  die."  It,  however,  pro 
duces  a  vast  amount  of  the  other  kind. 

Some  individual  breaks  away  from  the  con 
ventions.  Immediately  he  has  a  score  of  follow 
ers,  who,  by  using  his  formula,  produce  what 
appears  to  be  the  same  results.  The  fashion 
grows  by  a  process  of  accretion  till  it  becomes 
an  old  fashion  and  is  suddenly  dropped.  There 
was  a  period  when  poetry  was  conceived  of  as 
the  "  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices."  Poets  vied 
with  each  other  in  the  invention  of  conceits. 
\Vords  never  ventured  into  print  in  their  obvi 
ous  meanings.  They  appeared  in  elaborate  mas 
querade.  Even  religion  hid  behind  a  masque 
and  claimed  attention  by  pretending  to  be  some 
thing  else.  This  make-believe  was  considered 
the  very  essence  of  poetry.  It  was  the  criterion 
by  which  it  could  be  distinguished  from  prose. 

But  these  "Dainty  Devices  "  would  not  have 
pleased  the  poet  who  a  century  ago  from  the 
American  backwoods  voiced  his  aspirations. 


1 82     THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

O  for  a  thousand  mouths,  a  thousand  tongues, 
A  throat  of  brass  and  adamantine  lungs ! 

To  the  members  of  the  school  of  the  brazen- 
throated  and  adamantine-lunged  all  refinements 
were  contemptible.  They  were  all  for  strength. 

Sometimes  the  bond  of  union  between  minor 
poets  is  educational.  They  feel  that  it  is  their 
duty  to  improve  the  mind,  and  they  proceed  to 
do  it.  I  take  up  a  volume  entitled  "  Fugitive 
Poems  connected  with  Natural  History  and  the 
Physical  Sciences."  It  is  not  necessary  that  this 
anthology  should  be  dated.  It  obviously  be 
longs  to  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
How  pathetically  these  poetical  fugitives  flock 
together,  seeking  safety  in  numbers!  Driven 
out  of  their  habitations  by  the  advancing  hordes 
of  Science,  they  attempt  to  obtain  mercy  by 
chanting  the  praise  of  their  conquerors.  We  are 
reminded  of  the  exiles  by  the  rivers  of  Baby 
lon  from  whom  those  who  carried  them  away 
captive  required  a  song.  The  poetic  captives  of 
science  did  their  best  to  satisfy  the  demand,  but 
soon  gave  up  the  effort  and  hung  their  harps 
on  the  willows. 

It  is  another  world  which  we  enter  when  we 


MINOR  POETS  183 

take  up  "The  Nightingale  or  Polite  Amatory 
Songster — A  Selection  of  Delicate,  Pathetic  and 
Elegant  Songs  designed  chiefly  for  Ladies."  It 
was  published  in  Boston  in  1808.  The  prin 
ciple  of  selection  was  stated :  "  This  volume  is 
presented  to  the  public  with  no  exclusive  claims 
of  patronage  except  those  arising  from  the  solici 
tude  of  the  compiler  to  avoid  every  expression 
that  might  offend  the  delicacy  of  female  mod 
esty." 

The  "  Amatory  Songster  "  was  but  one  of  a 
vast  number  of  volumes  which  belonged  to 
what  we  may  call  the  "Literature  of  Moral  Solici 
tude."  It  seems  to  have  occurred  simultaneously 
to  a  multitude  of  prose  writers  and  poets,  that, 
in  taking  their  pen  in  hand,  they  should  avoid 
every  expression  that  might  give  offense.  That 
any  other  virtue  or  grace  beside  that  of  avoid 
ance  was  necessary  did  not  occur  to  them.  Even 
writers  who  were  capable  of  more  positive  and 
varied  contributions  to  literature  sought  to  an 
swer  the  demand. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  in  his  collection  of  "  Poems 
for  Young  Ladies,"  went  even  beyond  the 
"Amatory  Songster"  in  his  solicitude.  He  says: 


1 84     THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

"  Dr.  Fordyce's  excellent  sermons  for  Young 
Women  in  some  measure  gave  rise  to  the  fol 
lowing  compilation.  Care  has  been  taken  to 
select  not  only  such  poems  as  innocence  may 
reacTaloud  without  a  blush,  but  such  as  will 
strengthen  that  innocence." 

Goldsmith  was  evidently  ambitious.  His  col 
lection  should  not  merely  represent  the  current 
ideal  of  innocence.  It  should  be  the  latest  word 
in  Super-Innocence.  He  remarks :  "  Poetry  is 
an  art  no  young  lady  can  or^ought  to  be  wholly 
ignorant  of.  The  pleasure  which  it  gives,  and 
indeed  the  necessity  of  knowing  enough  to  mix 
in  modern  conversation  will  evince  the  useful* 
ness  of  my  design." 

Now  the  cat  is  out  of  the  bag.  Poetry  as  a 
pleasure  was  one  thing.  But  the  more  important 
thing  was  the  assumed  "  necessity  of  knowing 
enough  to  mix  in  modern  conversation."  Here 
the  gregarious  motive  comes  in.  Poetry  for  its 
own  sake  might  be  produced  and  enjoyed  in 
blameless  solitude.  But  the  connection  between 
poetry  and  conversation  renders  it  necessary  to 
put  the  emphasis  upon  timeliness.  Poetry  must 
approximate  to  journalism.  It  must  have  a  dis- 


MINOR  POETS  185 

tinct  news  value,  and  be  kept  up  to  date.  No 
body  wants  to  talk  about  last  year's  fashions. 

It  is  obvious  that  as  the  fashions  in  modern 
conversation  change  there  will  be  a  demand  for 
a  corresponding  change  in  the  poetry  that  is  to 
be  talked  about.  Innocence  having  been  talked 
out,  conversation  turns  to  a  solemn  knowing- 
ness.  We  see  in  our  own  time  among  those  who 
would  be  in  the  swim  an  insistence  that  poets 
should  choose  themes  that  satisfy  the  serious- 
minded  inquirer.  The  more  unpleasant  the  sub 
ject  is,  the  more  meritorious.  Indeed  in  some 
circles  it  is  assumed  that  the  poet  who  would  ad 
vance  the  cause  of  modernity  must  begin  his 
campaign  with  a  policy  of  deliberate  frightful- 
ness.  Having  shown  his  ability  to  hack  his  way 
through  the  sensibilities  of  his  readers  he  may 
afterwards  yield  to  his  native  geniality. 

All  this  is  a  matter  of  fashion.  If  fashion  re 
quired  that  a  sound  moral  be  tacked  on  to  every 
bit  of  poetry,  the  demand  would  be  met  by 
those  who  were  in  close  touch  with  the  market 
To  do  otherwise  would  be  to  invite  disaster. 

An  eighteenth-century  critic  complains  that 
the  "  Scribleriad "  by  the  much-admired  poet 


1 86     THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

Richard  Owen  Cambridge  was  not  as  popular 
as  its  merits  would  indicate.  "  The  composition 
of  the  'Scribleriad'  is  regular,  spirited  and  poetic. 
There  are  few  descriptions  so  happily  imagined 
as  the  approach  of  an  army  of  rebuses  and  acros 
tics."  Rebuses  and  acrostics  were  in  fashion; 
why,  then,  was  the  public  so  cold  in  its  attitude 
towards  the  "Scribleriad"?  The  critic  explains: 
"  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  author  determined 
to  avoid  moral  reflections,  which  he  could  easily 
have  furnished." 

Mr.  Cambridge  was  not  really  up  to  date.  If, 
instead  of  merely  describing  his  army  of  rebuses 
and  acrostics,  he  had  explained  that  they  sym 
bolized  the  eternal  warfare  of  virtue  and  vice, 
all  would  have  been  well,  and  he  would  have 
had  an  honorable  place  among  the  new  poets. 

But  Mr.  Cambridge  may  have  been  infected 
by  another  fashion  that  was  just  passing  that 
was  not  moral  at  all.  Another  critic  of  about  the 
same  period  alludes  to  "the  usual  anacreontics 
the  spirit  of  composing  which  was  raging  a  few 
years  since  among  all  the  sweet  singers  of  Great 
Britain." 

I  like  that  phrase,  "  the  spirit  of  composing 


MINOR  POETS  187 

which."  It  can  be  applied  to  so  many  cases  in 
literary  history.  The  spirit  of  composing  anacre 
ontics  was  not  the  only  one  which  raged  in  those 
days  among  the  more  gregarious  poets.  There 
was  the  great  Thomas  Warton  who  had  a  school 
of  fashionable  poetry,  which  he  defended  against 
all  comers,  for  Warton  was  not  only  a  poet,  but 
a  most  redoubtable  critic.  "As  a  contributor  to 
the  literature  of  his  country  few  men  stood  higher 
than  Warton."  He  could  write  pieces  like  the 
"Triumph  of  Isis"  and  "The  Pleasures  of  Mel 
ancholy";  but  above  all  he  believed  in  writing 
odes.  He  composed  odes  on  all  subjects  from  the 
"Ode  to  Spring"  to  an  "Ode  to  a  Grizzle  Wig." 
His  brother  Joseph  was  also  a  most  highly  ap 
proved  clergyman,  critic,  and  poet.  This  gave 
an  opportunity  for  team  play. 

But  after  a  while  the  demand  for  Wartonian 
poetry  fell  off.  The  biographer  sadly  remarks, 
"The  school  of  Warton,  as  it  is  called,  has  not 
of  late  been  mentioned  with  the  respect  it  de 
serves."  It  is  the  fate  of  schools. 

I  came  across  an  old  volume  of  "The  Senti 
mental  Magazine  "  for  1 773-74.  The  prospectus 
was  most  appealing.  The  editor  opened  his  heart 


1 88     THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

to  his  subscribers.  Sentimentalism  he  said  was 
in  the  air.  The  new  writers  were  full  of  it.  But 
it  had  not  been  organized.  People  were  senti 
mental  in  spots  and  because  they  were  surprised 
by  emotion.  But  now  the  time  had  come  for 
sentiment  to  have  an  organ  of  its  own.  The  maga 
zine  would  express  the  aspirations  and  achieve 
ments  of  the  Sentimental  School.  Here,  free 
from  the  annoyances  of  alien  habits  of  thought, 
they  could  indulge  to  their  hearts'  content  in 
pure  feeling.  The  editor  promised  that  "every 
number  of  this  magazine  will  force  the  tears  of 
sensibility  from  the  eyes  of  the  reader." 

What  became  of  this  literary  force-pump  I  do 
not  know.  I  fancy,  however,  that  after  a  time 
it  ceased  to  work.  We  are  all  ready  to  yield  to 
emotion  when  it  is  spontaneous,  but  we  harden 
our  hearts  when  we  suspect  that  certain  persons 
have  entered  into  a  conspiracy  to  exploit  our 
tender  feelings. 

I  once  had  a  lesson  which  I  took  to  heart.  I 
had  two  friends,  both  of  whom  happened  to  be 
blind.  It  unluckily  occurred  to  me  that  it  would 
be  a  pleasure  to  them  to  be  made  acquainted. 


MINOR  POETS  189 

But  when  I  suggested  this  to  one  of  them  he 
drew  himself  up  with  dignity  and  said :  "  I  de 
cline  to  make  acquaintances  on  the  basis  of  my 
infirmity." 

I  think  of  this  when  I  see  the  attempts  to  bring 
together  poets  on  the  ground  of  what  seem  to 
the  prosaic  mind  common  interests  and  con 
ditions.  It  is  assumed  that  those  who  belong  to 
the  same  party  or  live  in  the  same  place  enjoy 
being  put  in  the  same  category.  Here  is  a  vol 
ume  entitled  "The  Poets  of  Maine;  a  collec 
tion  of  specimen  poems  of  a  hundred  verse- 
makers  of  the  Pine  Tree  State."  The  Poets  of 
Iowa  are  as  numerous,  and  the  Poets  of  Michi 
gan  are  as  the  leaves  of  the  forest.  Why  is  it 
that  local  loyalty  and  state  pride  seem  to  fail  to 
furnish  any  real  bond  of  union  to  these  verse- 
makers  ?  I  do  not  think  of  Longfellow  as  a  Poet 
of  Maine.  He  has  other  claims  upon  my  regard. 

A  topographical  term,  like  the  "Lake  Poets," 
may  be  useful  for  conversation  or  lecturing,  but 
it  serves  no  other  end.  Because  a  certain  num 
ber  of  gifted  persons  frequented  the  same  lovely 
region,  it  does  not  follow  that  they  had  a  great 
deal  in  common.  The  absurdity  of  classifications 


1 90    THE  GREGARIOUSNESS  OF 

according  to  residence  is  seen  when  we  remem 
ber  that  Keats  was  characterized  by  spiteful  con 
temporaries  as  belonging  to  the  Cockney  School. 
Any  one  less  of  a  cockney  it  would  be  hard  to 
find.  Keats  walked  the  London  streets,  but  his 
true  citizenship  was  in  the  islands 

Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

There  have  been  times  not  far  remote  when 
it  was  thought  a  laudable  undertaking  to  bring 
together  collections  of  verse  under  the  title  "Fe 
male  Poetry."  Why  should  the  female  poets 
be  segregated?  A  careful  scrutiny  of  their  works 
reveals  nothing  which  they  might  not  have  ex 
pressed  with  the  utmost  propriety  in  the  pres 
ence  of  their  gentleman  friends.  When  I  think 
of  Sappho  I  think  of  her  simply  as  a  poet.  That 
is  the  way  I  suppose  that  Sappho  would  like  to 
be  thought  of. 

Nor  is  the  technique  of  their  art  a  bond  of 
union  between  true  poets.  Such  a  poet  may 
find  his  most  natural  means  of  expression  in  the 
familiar  forms  of  prosody.  Or  he  may  say  with 
Chaucer's  pilgrim  — 

I  can  nat  geste  —  rum,  ram,  ruf — by  lettrc, 
Ne,  God  wot,  rym  hold  I  but  litel  bettre. 


MINOR  POETS  191 

He  may  be  the  freest  of  free  versifiers,  but  if  he 
has  the  poet's  gift  he  may  take  what  liberties  he 
will.  It  is  a  case  when  the  end  justifies  the  means. 
But  let  him  not  think  to  make  us  receive  all 
who  abjure  rhyme  and  familiar  metres  as  belong 
ing  to  his  class.  Because  we  admit  the  actuality 
of  a  horseless  carriage,  it  does  not  follow  that 
any  carriage  can  be  made  to  go  by  the  simple 
device  of  shooting  the  horse.  Nor  should  the 
new  poets  pride  themselves  on  their  newness  in 
point  of  time.  It  will  soon  wear  off.  The  bond 
that  unites  a  poet  to  his  contemporaries  is  very 
slight  compared  to  that  which  unites  him  to 
kindred  spirits  in  many  generations.  Poetry  is 
the  timeless  art. 

The  greater  poets  have  always  proudly  de 
clared  their  independence  of  the  passing  hour. 
The  mere  chronological  sequences  have  to  them 
little  significance.  Shakespeare  utters  his  de 
fiance. 

No,  Time,  thou  shalt  not  say  that  I  do  change. 
Thy  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might 
To  me  are  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange, 
They  are  but  dressings  of  a  former  sight. 

Thy  registers  and  thee  I  both  defy 

Not  wondering  at  the  present  nor  the  past. 


1 92  MINOR  POETS 

Nor  is  this  impression  of  timelessness  charac 
teristic  only  of  the  supreme  poets.  The  minor 
poets  when  they  are  at  their  best  have  the  same 
gift.  They  snatch  from  our  working  day  some 
blessed  moments  of  real  insight.  We  see  some 
thing  that  does  not  belong  to  the  passing  hour. 
It  was  true  a'  thousand  years  ago  and  it  is  true 
still.  These  Robin  Hoods  rob  time  for  the  bene 
fit  of  eternity.  We  cannot  discipline  them  or 
organize  them.  But  we  are  glad  that  there  are 
these  merry  men. 


THE   TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN 

THE  frontispiece  of  Hobbes's  "  Leviathan  " 
contains  a  symbolic  picture  that  becomes 
terrifying  only  when  we  ponder  its  meaning. 
There  is  a  huge  figure  of  a  man  holding  in  his 
hands  the  scepter  and  crozier,  symbols  of  politi 
cal  and  ecclesiastical  power.  The  figure  repre 
sents  one  born  to  rule. 

Or  was  he  born  ?  Closer  inspection  reveals 
the  fact,  boldly  proclaimed  in  the  text,  that  this 
ruler  was  not  born  but  made.  He  is  declared  to 
be  the  "artificial  man."  He  is  made  out  of  a  vast 
number  of  little  men,  put  together  after  the  fash 
ion  of  a  picture  puzzle. 

But  why  call  this  artificial  man,  not  by  a  hu 
man  name,  but  after  a  mysterious  monster  of  the 
deep  *?  Quotations  from  the  Book  of  Job  make 
clear  the  reason.  Leviathan  represents  sheer 
force,  without-pity  and  without  respect  for  the 
individual  conscience.  Leviathan  is  less  than 


194    THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN 

man  in  that  he  does  not  love ;  but  he  is  stronger 
than  any  man.  He  is  at  once  subhuman  and 
superhuman.  He  represents  a  kind  of  strength 
which  terrifies  because  it  cannot  be  moved  by 
the  spectacle  of  our  helplessness.  It  listens  to 
no  appeal. 

Canst  thou  draw  out  Leviathan  with  a  fish  hook  ? 

Or  press  down  his  tongue  with  a  cord  ? 

Canst  thou  put  a  rope  into  his  nose  ? 

Or  pierce  his  jaw  through  with  a  hook  ? 

Will  he  make  many  supplications  unto  theo  ? 

Or  will  he  speak  soft  words  unto  thcc? 

Will  he  make  a  covenant  with  thee, 

That  thou  shouldest  take  him  for  a  servant  forever  ? 

Leviathan  knows  nothing  of  rights  or  du 
ties: — 

In  his  neck  abideth  strength, 

And  terror  danceth  before  him. 

The  flakes  of  his  flesh  are  joined  together: 

They  are  firm  upon  him;  they  cannot  be  moved. 

His  heart  is  as  firm  as  a  stone; 

Yea,  firm  as  the  nether  millstone. 

When  he  raiseth  himself  up,  the  mighty  are  afraid. 

So  the  Hebrew  poet  told  of  the  pitiless 
strength  of  Leviathan,  against  whom  it  was  use 
less  to  contend.  All  this,  said  Thomas  Hobbes, 
is  true  of  that  "artificial  man"  whom  we  have 
made,  and  who,  when  once  made,  is  our  mas- 


THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN    195 

ter.  He  is  the  work  of  our  hands,  but  we  must 
worship  him  because,  if  we  do  not,  he  has  power 
to  kill  us,  and  he  will  kill  us  because  he  has  no 
pity.  He  is  made  by  us,  not  because  we  will  to 
create  him,  but  because  we  must.  He  like  our 
selves  is  a  creature  of  necessity. 

This  artificial  man  is  the  Commonwealth  or 
the  Nation.  In  one  sense  Leviathan  is  an  ag 
gregation  of  human  beings,  but  once  formed 
he  has  interests  apart  from  them.  They  must 
sacrifice  themselves  to  him,  and  must  yield  im 
plicitly  to  his  will. 

Is  that  will  a  righteous  will *?  In  one  sense, 
yes.  The  artificial  man  can  do  no  wrong,  for  he 
himself  determines  the  morality  of  those  who 
must  obey  his  will.  He  makes  the  law ;  he  en 
forces  it.  That  is  right  which  makes  him  strong 
and  increases  the  bounds  of  his  dominion.  The 
individual  conscience  must  keep  silent  in  the 
presence  of  its  master.  Private  scruples  must 
give  way  to  public  expediency,  which  is  the 
essence  of  public  right.  But  what  if  the  indi 
vidual  still  protests'?  Leviathan  will  strike  him 
dead.  Surely,  "  upon  earth  there  is  not  his  like." 

But  if  we  made  Leviathan,  why  can  we  not 


196    THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN 

unmake  him  *?  Living  as  he  did  amid  the  un 
certainties  of  a  troubled  time  Hobbes  could  not 
deny  the  fact  of  revolution.  And  when  revolu 
tion  became  a  fact,  he  was  consistent  with  his 
theory  in  accepting  it.  Yes,  you  can  unmake 
Leviathan,  but  only  as  you  make  another  Levi 
athan,  who  is  stronger  than  he.  You  stand  in 
the  same  relation  to  this  new  Leviathan  that 
you  stood  to  the  old.  You  have  made  some 
thing  that  is  mightier  than  yourself.  Struggle 
as  you  will,  you  do  not  escape  the  rule  of  brute 
force.  But  why  does  not  our  discontent  take  a 
more  radical  form  *?  Why  do  we  not  at  last  in 
desperation  refuse  to  create  the  artificial  man 
who  tyrannizes  over  us?  Is  there  not  such  a 
thing  as  liberty  ?  Why  not  let  the  institutions, 
political  and  ecclesiastical,  decay,  while  each 
man  lives  his  own  life  and  obeys  his  own  con 
science?  Let  kings  and  priests  perish,  while 
the  individual  man  obeys  the  inner  light. 

Because,  says  Hobbes,  we  are  all  afraid. 
More  than  anything  else  we  fear  one  another. 
In  the  state  of  nature  every  man's  hand  is  against 
his  neighbor.  A  man  left  to  himself  is  helpless. 
He  must  find  protection  somewhere.  Only 


THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN    197 

through  organization  can  he  find  security  for 
life  and  property.  But  where  the  organization 
gets  strong  enough  to  protect  him,  it  becomes 
too  strong  to  be  directed  by  him.  It  matters 
not  what  form  the  organization  takes,  whether 
we  call  it  a  "  kingdom  "  or  "  commonwealth," 
whether  at  the  head  is  King  Charles  or  Oliver, 
the  Protector,  the  only  thing  that  is  left  for 
us  is  obedience.  Our  protector  must  determine 
what  for  us  is  duty. 

Hobbes  presented  the  question  of  might  and 
right  as  it  appeared  to  the  mind  of  the  seven 
teenth  century.  His  contemporaries  were  still 
discussing  the  question  of  the  divine  right  of 
kings  to  rule,  as  it  presented  itself  to  the  ecclesi 
astical  conscience.  Hobbes  was  sternly  secular. 
Royalty  was  not  to  him  a  divine  institution. 
His  argument  would  work  equally  well  with  a 
republic.  He  was  dealing  with  human  necessity 
and  natural  law.  The  power  that  we  must  obey 
is  of  our  own  invention.  But  it  has  got  away 
from  us,  and  turns  upon  us,  and  exercises  com 
pulsion  over  us.  We  are  destined  to  make  in 
stitutions  which  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  con 
trol.  There  is  nothing  left  for  us  but  blind 


i98    THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN 

obedience  to  a  force  which  we  are  powerless  to 
resist. 

Had  Hobbes  lived  in  the  twentieth  century  his 
Leviathan  would  have  been  a  much  more  for 
midable  monster.  For  the  natural  man  has  not 
greatly  increased  in  moral  or  intellectual  stature, 
but  the  artificial  man  has  grown  prodigiously. 
Human  ingenuity  has  increased  the  power  of 
political  organization  without  having  contrived 
means  by  which  it  may  be  spiritualized.  Mech 
anism  has  been  perfected,  while  the  power  to 
direct  it  to  useful  ends  has  not  increased. 

We  have  awakened  to  a  great  fear.  We 
had  rejoiced  because  human  intelligence  had 
gained  such  wonderful  control  over  the  blind 
forces  of  nature.  But  what  if  it  should  turn  out 
that  human  intelligence  is  itself  a  blind  force, 
incapable  of  real  self-direction"?  What  if  it  is 
destined  to  create  institutions  which  destroy  its 
own  happiness?  It  organizes  forces  which  are  in 
the  end  destructive.  It  creates  an  artificial  man 
and  then  sacrifices  to  it  all  that  makes  the  indi 
vidual  life  tolerable  Hobbes  called  his  artificial 
man  tl  a  mortal  god."  What  if  the  mortal  god 
13  satisfied  with  nothing  but  human  sacrifice? 


, 


THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN    199 

It  is  just  at  this  point  that  we  must  make  our 
stand.  Leviathan  is  strong;  that  we  must  ac 
knowledge,  and  he  is  likely  to  become  stronger. 
We  should  not  refuse  to  use  his  strength. 
But  we  do  refuse  to  bow  down  and  worship  him 
as  a  god. 

The  fact  is  that  civilized  man  has  not  de 
veloped  so  far  as  to  be  free  from  the  animistic 
superstitions  of  his  remote  ancestors,  who  wor 
shiped  the  work  of  their  own  hands.  The  age 
long  battle  against  idolatry  must  still  be  waged. 
Back  of  some  of  the  most  dangerous  doctrines 
of  our  modern  ^  times  there  are  ideas  that  are 
survivals  of  the  thinking  of  the  most  primitive 
worshipers. 

Listen  to  the  ancient  iconoclast  as  he  taunted 
the  idolaters :  "  The  smith  maketh  an  axe,  and 
worketh  in  the  coals,  and  fashioneth  it  with 
hammers,  and  worketh  it  with  his  strong  arm ; 
yea,  he  is  hungry,  and  his  strength  faileth; 
he  drinketh  no  water,  and  is  faint.  The  car 
penter  stretcheth  out  a  line ;  he  marketh  it 
out  with  a  pencil;  he  shapeth  it  with  planes, 
and  he  marketh  it  out  with  the  compasses, 
and  he  shapeth  it  after  the  figure  of  a  man.  .  .  . 


200    THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN 

He  falleth  down  unto  it  and  worshippeth, 
and  prayeth  unto  it,  and  saith,  Deliver  me ;  for 
thou  art  my  God." 

Then  the  prophet  goes  on  with  bitter  sincer 
ity:  "None  calleth  to  mind,  neither  is  there 
knowledge  nor  understanding  to  say,  I  have 
burned  part  of  it  in  the  fire;  yea,  also  I  have 
baked  bread  upon  the  coals  thereof;  I  have 
roasted  flesh  and  eaten  it:  and  shall  I  make  the 
residue  thereof  an  abomination  ?  shall  I  fall 
down  to  the  stock  of  a  tree  ?  " 

One  would  have  supposed  that  the  carpenter, 
who  with  his  axe  and  pencil  and  compasses  had 
wit  enough  to  make  a  wooden  image  that  looked 
like  a  man,  would  also  have  wit  enough  to  know 
that  this  image  was  not  a  god.  He  had  no  illu 
sions  with  regard  to  the  rest  of  the  tree.  Wood 
was  wood  when  he  needed  fuel  to  bake  his 
bread.  But  this  piece  of  wood  which  he  had 
hewn  into  human  shape  was  to  him  divinity. 

But  suppose,  instead  of  a  superstitious  car 
penter,  that  we  are  addressing  a  company  of  citi 
zens,  who  have  fallen  into  an  idolatrous  attitude 
to  the  State.  Might  they  not  properly  be  ad 
dressed  in  much  the  same  fashion. 


THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN    aoi 

You  have  fashioned  for  yourselves  a  god. 
You  have  made  it,  not  out  of  stone  or  wood,  but 
out  of  your  own  thoughts,  habits,  necessities. 
Each '  one  of  you  has  a  measure  of  strength. 
Part  of  it  you  use  for  the  preservation  of  your 
own  lives  and  for  the  welfare  of  your  own  fam 
ilies.  The  residue  goes  to  the  building  up  of 
those  common  interests  which  belong  to  the 
State.  And  this  is  well.  The  Nation  has  no 
power  except  that  which  you  the  citizens  sup 
ply.  You  make  it  what  it  is.  It  has  no  life  apart 
from  you.  It  is  a  great  and  powerful  instrument 
which  you  have  created  and  which  you  are 
to  use  for  ends  which  you  approve.  To  say 
that  a  nation  is  prosperous,  when  prosperity  is  not 
diffused  among  its  people,  is  to  indulge  in  super 
stition.  National  honor  is  a  vain  thing  unless  it 
corresponds  to  the  ethical  standard  of  the  people 
who  are  asked  to  give  their  lives  in  its  defense. 
It  is  really  their  honor  that  is  involved. 

Over  against  the  animistic  idea  of  the  Com 
monwealth  as  an  artificial  man  who  has  been  en 
dowed  with  superhuman  and  supermoral  powers, 
there  is  slowly  growing  up  an  idea  that  is  severely 
realistic.  The  political  institution  has  nothing 


202    THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN 

miraculous  about  It.  It  is  a  tool  of  our  own 
making.  We  invented  it;  we  use  it  for  our  own 
purpose.  We  use  it,  and  when  it  ceases  to  serve 
our  highest  purposes,  it  is  time  to  invent  some 
thing  better.  The  Nation  is  a  huge  aggregate 
of  the  interests,  customs,  laws,  traditions,  and 
ideals  which  we  have  in  common.  The  loyalty 
of  the  individual  citizen  ceases  to  be  a  blind  in 
stinct.  ItLis  based  on  substantial  agreement  in 
fundamental  ideas.  To  those  who  hold  this  con 
ception  of  the  State,  political  morality  differs 
from  personal  morality  only  in  the  fact  that  it  is 
more  difficult,  and  that  its  operations  are  on  a 
larger  scale, 

We  are  watching,  in  Europe,  not  merely  a 
'conflict  between  nations,  but  a  conflict  between 
two  conceptions  of  the  meaning  of  nationality. 
No  form  of  fanaticism  has  been  preached  more 
zealously  nor  been  carried  out  more  ruthlessly 
than  the  worship  of  the  State  as  a  mortal  god. 
The  hour  of  disillusion  is  coming.  This  is  the 
meaning  of  the  growing  movement  for  demo 
cratic  control. 

Here  in  America  the  Leviathan  of  Hobbes, 


THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN    203 

bearing  the  scepter  and  crozier,  has  been  par 
tially  tamed.  We  no  longer  worship  the  sym 
bols  of  political  or  ecclesiastical  power.  Our 
attitude  toward  the  dignitaries  of  Church  and 
State  lacks  servility,  and  often,  we  must  confess, 
is  lacking  even  in  the  respect  that  is  seemly. 

/-Nevertheless,  we  are  not  free  from  the  wor 
ship  of  Leviathan  as  a  mortal  god.  His  power 
is  not  so  much  political  or  ecclesiastical  as  eco 
nomic  and  industrial  and  professional.  We  have 
been  organizing  forces  that  overawe  us. 

The  corporation  is  an  invention,  by  which  the 
individual  may  join  his  fortune  with  others  in 
accomplishing  work  which  is  far  beyond  his 
own  means.  He  finds  protection  here  and  cooper 
ation.  But  as  the  institution  grows,  it  makes  an 
appeal  to  the  imagination  on  its  own  behalf,  and 
altogether  apart  from  the  objects  for  which  it 
was  originally  intended. 

A  railroad  performs  the  function  of  a  com 
mon  carrier.  Now,  when  a  common  carrier  had 
only  a  horse  and  cart,  it  was  very  easy  to  de 
termine  his  relation  to  the  public.  His  work  was 
useful,  but  strictly  limited.  He  was  to  carry 
goods  and  passengers  as  economically  as  pos- 


204    THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN 

sible  along  the  public  highway  between  two 
towns.  It  was  well  understood  that  it  was  not 
his  business  to  determine  where  the  highway 
should  run,  nor  to  interfere  with  the  govern 
ment  of  the  towns. 

But  when  competing  railroads  become  a  "  sys 
tem,"  and  there  is  a  huge  army  of  employees,  and 
great  offices  become  like  a  capital  city,  and  terri 
tory  is  annexed,  and  there  are  highly  trained 
officials,  the  railroad  becomes  personified.  It  is 
an  object  of  a  devotion  that  easily  becomes 
superstition. 

We  have  seen  railroad  presidents  and  direc 
tors  whose  actions  can  be  explained  only  as  a 
kind  of  idolatry.  They  were  bowing  down  and 
sacrificing  to  the  work  of  their  own  hands. 
Ordinary  business  motives  would  not  account 
for  the  fact  that  they  would  pay  more  than  it 
was  worth  for  property  whose  only  use  was  to 
glorify  the  system.  After  one  of  these  unremu- 
nerative  additions  to  the  mileage  of  the  railroad, 
one  hears  the  same  kind  of  shout  that  went  up 
from  the  ancient  worshipers,  when  for  the  space 
of  two  hours  they  cried,  "  Great  is  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians." 


THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN    205 

In  the  mean  time  the  stockholders  whose 
money  was  invested,  and  the  public  whose  goods 
are  to  be  carried,  are  little  considered.  They 
must  be  prepared  to  sacrifice  to  the  great  Levia 
than. 

The  thoughtful  working  man  finds  himself  in 
a  similar  plight.  He  is  confronted  by  a  power 
which  he  himself  has  created,  and  which  protects 
him  from  his  enemies,  but  at  the  same  time 
coerces  him.  Only  through  organization  can  he 
hold  his  own  against  those  who  would  reduce 
his  wages  and  lower  his  standard  of  living.  But 
the  organization  becoming  his  master  is  pitiless 
when  he  tries  to  live  his  own  life  in  freedom. 
When  he  worships  it  as  a  mortal  god,  it  crushes 
him. 

Nor  does  any  one  of  us  altogether  escape  the 
dilemma.  Whoever  discovers  that  in  union 
there  is  strength  is  confronted  by  the  question 
whether  that  strength  is  to  be  used  or  to  be 
worshiped.  He  must  become  either  an  artist  or 
an  idolater. 

The  artist  uses  whatever  material  and  what 
ever  forces  he  finds  at  hand,  but  he  does  not  al 
low  himself  to  be  mastered  by  them.  And  when 


106    THE  TAMING  OF  LEVIATHAN 

he  has  finished  his  work,  he  does  not  fall  down 
before  it.  He  looks  at  it  critically,  he  sees  its 
limitations,  and  he  plans  a  new  work  which  he 
hopes  may  surpass  it. 

He  does  not  worship  the  work  of  his  own 
hands  because  he  worships  an  ideal  that  is  al 
ways  beyond  him.  The  cure  for  idolatry  is 
idealism. 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 


SEVERAL  years  ago  in  the  "Atlantic 
Monthly"  I  drew  attention  to  an  experi 
ment  which  was  being  tried  in  a  Theological 
Seminary  in  which  I  was  interested.  Money  had 
been  left  by  an  eccentric  individual  to  found  a 
chair  of  Military  Science  in  the  Seminary.  The 
trustees  had  no  precedent  to  warrant  them  in 
rejecting  any  considerable  gift,  and  therefore 
sought  to  adapt  the  professorship  as  far  as  possi 
ble  to  the  peaceful  ends  for  which  the  institu 
tion  was  founded.  They  were  fortunate  in  find 
ing  a  retired  army  officer  who  entered  heartily 
into  the  work  to  which  he  was  called.  The 
Colonel  believed  that  the  peace-maker  could 
never  succeed  until  he  put  as  much  courage  and 
skill  into  his  work  as  was  necessary  to  the  suc 
cessful  conduct  of  war* 

Not  long  ago  I  revisited  the  Seminary  and 
spent  an  hour  in  the  Colonel's  classroom.  I  found 


208     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

that  the  events  of  the  last  two  years  had  left  their 
impress  on  him  and  he  was  less  inclined  to  dwell 
on  the  technicalities  of  his  art,  but  his  interest  in 
the  subject  had  not  abated.  The  subject  of  his 
lecture  was — "Some  Lessons  of  the  Present 
War  bearing  on  the  Strategy  of  Peace." 

He  said  in  the  popular  mind  there  is  a  con 
fusion  between  strategy  and  stratagems.  A  strata 
gem  is  an  artifice  for  deceiving  and  surprising 
the  enemy.  In  former  wars  there  was  much  room 
for  such  carefully  planned  surprises.  It  was  pos 
sible  for  a  general  with  an  inferior  force,  by  rapid 
concentration  at  an  unexpected  point,  to  gain  a 
decisive  victory.  Even  so  late  as  our  Civil  War, 
Stonewall  Jackson  with  a  mobile  force  was  able 
to  paralyze  the  operations  of  a  much  larger  army. 
In  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  screened  by  moun 
tain  ramparts,  he  could  keep  the  Union  generals 
guessing. 

But  in  the  present  war  there  have  been  few 
surprises.  There  have  been  battles  which  in  the 
number  of  troops  engaged  and  in  casualties  have 
outranked  the  famous  battles  of  history,  but  they 
have  decided  nothing.  Even  the  non-military 
public  did  not  follow  them  with  breathless  in- 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE     209 

terest,  because  there  was  the  perception  of  the 
fact  that  this  war  is  not  to  be  decided  by  any 
single  battle. 

The  only  possibility  of  a  decisive  surprise 
was  at  the  beginning.  When  it  became  evident 
that  the  German  armies  could  not  reach  Paris 
by  a  sudden  rush,  the  war  settled  down  to  a 
grim  trial  of  absolute  strength.  There  was  no 
room  for  stratagems  in  which  the  weaker  party 
might  win  by  a  clever  trick. 

The  use  of  the  aeroplane  made  surprise  move 
ments  difficult,  but  the  main  consideration  was 
the  magnitude  of  the  operations  and  the  vast 
number  of  reserves.  What  does  it  matter  if  on 
a  battle  front  of  hundreds  of  miles  an  army  is 
confronted  suddenly  by  a  superior  force  at  a 
particular  point  ?  Men  and  guns  can  be  hurried 
in  unlimited  quantities  to  the  threatened  point 
and  the  balance  of  force  redressed.  Until  the 
reserves  are  actually  exhausted,  the  fight  will 
go  on. 

Strategy  in  the  sense  of  stratagems  has  had 

an  insignificant  place  in  this  war,  but  strategy 

in  its  true  sense,  as  the  art  of  conducting  com- 

.  plicated  military  movements,  has  never  been 


210     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

more  wonderfully  displayed.  In  former  wars 
mobilization  has  been  incomplete.  Only  part  of 
the  power  of  the  nation  has  been  brought  into 
action.  In  this  desperate  conflict  it  was  early 
seen  that  every  bit  of  strength  was  needed.  The 
war  was  a  war  of  attrition.  The  aim  was  to  col 
lect  the  largest  reserves  possible  of  men  and 
munitions  and  money.  All  possible  powers 
must  be  coordinated;  the  plans  must  be  made 
upon  long  lines.  Only  when  the  work  of  prep 
aration  had  been  completed  could  there  be  a 
decision.  It  is  a  grim,  terrible  business,  but  once 
begun  it  must  go  on  till  one  party  is  utterly 
exhausted. 

It  is  this  character  of  the  war,  its  stern  sim 
plicity  of  outline,  and  its  tremendous  scope, 
which  distinguishes  it  from  all  former  conflicts. 
The  general  fitted  for  the  task  needs  not  quick 
ness  or  cleverness,  but  a  broad,  massive  under 
standing,  an  indomitable  will,  and  a  godlike 
patience.  He  must  expect  no  spectacular  vic 
tories.  The  force  he  wields  moves  like  a  glacier 
and  not  like  an  avalanche. 

Those  who  have  been  appalled  by  the  dreadful 
character  of  this  contest  like  to  speak  of  a  war 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE     211 

against  war.  But  I  fear  that  they  are  not  fully  con 
scious  of  the  lesson  that  is  being  taught  us.  They 
often  fail  to  recognize  the  magnitude  of  the  opera 
tions  in  which  they  are  engaged.  Many  are  still 
inclined  to  put  their  trust  in  pious  stratagems 
by  which  the  hosts  of  darkness  may  be  out 
witted.  They  are  not  fully  aware  of  the  need  of 
thorough  preparation  and  of  world-wide  coop 
eration.  They  imagine  that  the  war  against  war 
may  be  won  by  a  trick  or  by  a  sudden  frontal 
attack. 

My  colleague  in  the  chair  of  Homiletics  tells 
me  that  there  is  no  military  maneuver  which  is 
more  used  by  the  sermonizers  of  the  Seminary 
than  that  of  Gideon.  Gideon,  with  a  force  of 
twenty-two  thousand  troops,  had  encamped  by 
the  well  of  Harod.  He  detached  all  but  a  picked 
body  of  three  hundred  veterans.  With  these  he 
faced  the  allied  army  of  Midianites  and  Amale- 
kites  who  occupied  the  north  end  of  the  valley. 
Their  force  must  have  been  considerable,  for  it 
is  said  they  "lay  along  in  the  valley  like  locusts 
for  multitude ;  and  their  camels  were  without 
number,  as  the  sand  which  is  upon  the  seashore 
for  multitude." 


212     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

Gideon  made  a  night  attack,  his  three  hun 
dred  men  being  armed  only  with  torches,  trum 
pets,  and  empty  pitchers.  In  the  panic  that 
ensued  the  allied  army  was  routed.  My  col 
league  tells  me  that  after  reading  the  discourses 
handed  in  for  criticism,  he  is  led  to  believe  that 
the  students  in  the  Seminary  put  too  much  reli 
ance  upon  the  efficacy  of  empty  pitchers. 

The  stratagem  of  Gideon  was  admirable  for 
its  day,  but  it  cannot  be  safely  repeated  under 
modern  conditions.  A  general  will  hardly  be 
justified  in  sending  away  the  majority  of  his 
troops  and  trusting  to  a  small  body  of  choice 
spirits.  The  risk  is  too  great. 

In  looking  over  the  ante-bellum  peace  liter 
ature  I  have  been  struck  by  the  curious  lack  of 
imagination.  There  seemed  to  be  no  power  of 
visualizing  the  field  and  estimating  the  resources 
of  the  enemy.  In  this  the  peace-makers  com 
pare  unfavorably  with  the  war-makers.  You  have 
learned  from  your  textbook  that  a  prudent  king 
before  he  makes  war  sits  down  and  "  takes  coun 
sel  whether  he  is  able  with  ten  thousand  to  meet 
him  that  cometh  against  him  with  twenty  thou 
sand."  Such  a  preliminary  calculation  seems  to 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE     213 

have  been  omitted  in  many  of  the  plans  in  the 
war  against  war.  In  almost  every  case  decisive 
operations  were  proposed,  while  an  altogether 
inadequate  force  was  provided.  Reliance  was 
put  upon  a  general  panic  upon  the  part  of  the 
enemy  as  the  result  of  a  sudden  attack. 

You  remember  how  confident  many  people 
were,  only  three  or  four  years  ago,  that  the 
bankers,  if  they  were  so  disposed,  could  stop 
any  war  that  threatened  seriously  to  interfere 
with  business.  We  might  safely  dismiss  all  other 
agencies  for  keeping  the  peace  and  put  our  trust 
in  this  Gideon  band.  All  they  had  to  do  would 
be  to  break  their  financial  pitchers.  Panic  would 
do  the  rest.  It  would  not  take  three  hundred 
to  do  the  trick.  If  a  dozen  of  the  invisible  rulers 
of  Europe  would  say  the  word  they  could  in 
sure  peace.  To  stop  credit  would  be  to  stop  war. 

There  were  other  strategists  who  were  equally 
certain  that  Organized  Labor  was  strong  enough 
to  stop  war  between  nations.  Had  it  not  already 
been  organized  into  a  formidable  international 
army  for  this  very  end?  Were  not  all  workers 
comrades*?  Did  they  not  say  so?  Could  any 
war  be  carried  on  against  their  will?  All  that 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

was  needed  was  the  threat  of  a  general  'strike 
Instantly  the  war-makers  would  see  the  impos 
sibility  of  continuing  their  operations. 

I  went  into  a  church  and  heard  a  most  sin 
cere  minister  discourse  on  the  one  way  to 
secure  a  lasting  peace.  He  dismissed  all  the 
auxiliaries  of  the  secular  world-economics  — 
diplomacy  and  all  appeal  to  physical  force. 
There  should  be  no  entangling  alliances.  The 
war  against  war  must  be  waged  only  with  spir 
itual  weapons,  and  by  those  who  were  willing 
to  trust  to  no  arm  of  flesh. 

The  Church  could  stop  war  if  it  would.  All 
that  is  needed  is  to  induce  people  to  be  good. 
A  good  man  will  not  fight.  That  is  the  long 
and  short  of  it.  He  enlarged  on  this  aspect  of 
his  subject  through  the  most  of  his  discourse  so 
that  he  left  little  time  for  the  consideration  of 
the  question  which  most  interested  me,  What 
would  the  bad  men  do  under  those  circum 
stances  ?  He  dismissed  the  question,  however, 
with  the  dogmatic  assertion  that  the  bad  men 
would  n't  be  so  bad  as  to  keep  on  fighting  if 
the  good  men  would  n't  irritate  them  by  forci 
ble  resistance. 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE     215 

But  the  minister's  point  of  view  seemed  states 
manlike  compared  with  the  simple-mindedness 
of  the  militarist.  He  was  quite  sure  that  there 
was  only  one  way  to  keep  the  peace  and  that 
was  for  every  one  feverishly  to  prepare  for 
war.  No  nation  need  arm  except  for  defense. 
But  to  be  adequately  defended,  a  nation  must 
have  the  biggest  army  and  the  biggest  navy  in 
the  world.  Obviously  only  one  nation  can  be  in 
that  position  at  any  one  time.  But  when  all 
nations  are  striving  for  that  ideal  of  perfection, 
it  will  create  a  dangerous  situation;  in  fact,  it 
will  be  so  terribly  dangerous  that  everybody 
will  be  afraid  of  everybody.  There  will  be  such 
an  accumulation  of  explosives  that  nobody  will 
dare  light  a  match.  In  that  universal  fear  it  was 
supposed  that  there  would  be  the  power  to  keep 
the  peace. 

Then  the  great  explosion  came,  and  what  men 
feared,  happened.  We  were  all  stunned  and  we 
arose,  chastened,  to  begin  to  clear  away  the  ruins 
and  to  build  anew.  It  is  useless  to  twit  one  an 
other  about  the  failure  of  self-confident  prophe 
cies.  We  are  all  in  the  same  boat — pacifists,  mili 
tarists,  socialists,  business  men,  diplomatists.  Our 


216     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

plans  on  which  we  prided  ourselves  have  failed 
Not  one  of  us  has  been  able  to  avert  the  catas 
trophe. 

But  this  does  not  mean  that  we  are  to  give  up 
in  despair.  It  only  means  that  we  are  engaged 
in  an  undertaking  so  vast  that  we  cannot  expect 
to  win  by  any  isolated  action.  There  must  be 
coordination  of  all  the  forces  which  make  for 
peace.  We  cannot  afford  to  say  to  any  one  of 
them,  "I  have  no  need  of  thee." 

Let  me  emphasize  the  word  "forces."  The 
founder  of  this  professorship  had  in  mind  ques 
tions  of  dynamics.  He  believed  in  force  and  he 
thought  that  you  should  be  trained  into  its  effec 
tive  application.  The  forces  which  he  had  espe 
cially  in  mind  were  moral  and  spiritual,  but  he 
took  for  granted  that  the  intellectual  problems 
were  similar  to  those  that  arise  whenever  we  use 
any  form  of  energy. 

In  using  force  a  fundamental  consideration  is 
that  we  should  have  enough  of  it.  An  inade 
quate  force  accomplishes  nothing.  It  must  al 
ways  be  measured  by  the  resistance.  Only  when 
this  resistance  is  actually  overcome  by  an  excess 
of  energy  is  there  victory.  This  is  a  point  which 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE     217 

many  pacifists  overlook.  They  praise  moral 
force  and  declare  that  it  should  be  sufficient  in 
all  emergencies.  But  the  amount  they  produce 
is  only  sufficient  for  a  parlor  exhibition.  It  is 
enough  to  satisfy  a  company  of  well-disposed 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  have  no  particular 
grievances.  But  there  is  not  a  large  enough  quan 
tity  to  quell  a  hungry  mob,  still  less  to  coerce 
a  military  nation  intent  on  conquest. 

It  is  as  if  one  were  to  describe  the  tremendous 
effects  of  an  explosion  of  nitro-glycerine,  and 
then  exhibit  a  small  bottle  of  pure  glycerine. 
The  rocks  would  not  be  rent  by  this  emollient. 
Only  in  the  proper  combination  with  more  pow 
erful  elements,  and  in  sufficient  quantities,  could 
one  expect  any  notable  results. 

After  hostilities  on  a  large  scale  have  once 
begun,  to  cry,  "  Stop  the  War,"  is  like  the  cry 
of  frightened  passengers  in  a  collision,  "Stop  the 
train."  Everybody  would  like  to  stop  the  train, 
but  nobody  can  do  it.  The  trains  have  a  hor 
rible  way  of  stopping  themselves. 

The  present  war  will  go  on  till  its  momentum 
is  exhausted,  and  it  will  give  way  to  that  equi 
librium  which  we,  for  want  of  a  better  term, 


2i 8     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

call  peace.  But  that  peace  which  statesmen  will 
patch  up  when  soldiers  are  exhausted  is  not  the 
peace  for  which  you  young  gentlemen  are  striv 
ing.  It  is  the  peace  which  is  made  by  the  tempo 
rary  damming  of  the  stream,  it  is  not  the  "  peace 
that  floweth  as  a  river."  It  is  not  the  peace  of 
action,  but  the  peace  of  exhaustion. 

History  is  full  of  high-sounding  names  like 
the  Peace  of  Utrecht,  the  Peace  of  Paris,  the 
Peace  of  Tilsit,  and  the  rest.  They  only  indi 
cate  a  temporary  preponderance  of  force.  They 
register  the  results  of  war.  How  little  they 
amount  to  is  evident  to  any  one  who  will  spend 
an  hour  reading  a  Chronology. 

I  open,  for  example,  at  the  year  1716.  "Al 
liance  between  Great  Britain  and  the  Emperor 
May  25."  That  is  a  good  beginning.  "Turks 
defeated  by  Eugene  at  Peterwarden  Aug.  5." 
The  Turks  were  always  disturbers  of  the  peace 
and  must  be  put  down  before  anything  perma 
nent  can  be  established.  "The  Perpetual  Peace 
proclaimed  at  Warsaw  Nov.  3."  There  you  have 
it,  the  deed  is  done!  In  the  same  month  Eng 
land  establishes  a  Sinking  Fund  for  the  extinc 
tion  of  the  National  Debt.  The  economic 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE    219 

argument  against  war  is  beginning  to  have  its 
effect. 

But  what  happens  in  the  next  ten  years  after 
Perpetual  Peace  was  formally  proclaimed  at 
Warsaw  *?  The  chronologist  goes  on  his  monoto 
nous  way  as  if  he  were  announcing  the  departure 
of  trains  from  the  Union  Station.  Battle  of  Bel 
grade;  Sardinia  invaded  by  the  Spaniards;  Siege 
of  Fredrikhall  by  Charles  of  Sweden;  France  de 
clares  war  against  Spain;  Jacobite  plots  in  Eng 
land;  Buda  burnt;  War  between  Turkey  and 
Persia."  After  which  the  powers  come  together 
to  consider  the  preliminaries  for  a  general  peace. 
By  that  time  Czar  Peter  had  died  and  people 
had  forgotten  that  perpetual  peace  had  already 
been  established  at  Warsaw. 

It  will  be  observed  that  it  is  taken  for  granted 
that  war  settles  things.  Peace  is  the  interval  be 
tween  these  outbursts  of  activity. 

What  we  dream  of  is  a  state  in  which  this 
will  be  reversed,  when  great  and  necessary 
changes  and  adjustments  can  be  brought  about 
peacefully.  Isaiah  stated  the  ideal:  "I  will  make 
thy  officers  peace,  and  thine  exactors  righteous 
ness."  It  is  this  exacting  nature  of  a  righteous 


220     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

peace  that  presents  the  real  difficulty,  and  it  is 
this  difficulty  you  must  face. 

Wars  arise  out  of  a  conflict  of  wills.  One 
group  of  men  earnestly  desire  a  certain  good. 
Their  wills  are  thwarted  by  another  group  who 
stand  in  direct  opposition.  How  shall  they  get 
what  they  desire?  The  quietist  has  an  answer 
that  is  exceedingly  simple.  The  good  man  can 
always  have  peace  by  refusing  to  resist.  Let  him 
cultivate  meekness  of  spirit.  By  ceasing  to  in 
sist  on  his  own  will  he  avoids  conflict. 

If  all  men  cultivated  this  spirit  it  would  be 
effective  in  keeping  the  peace,  though  it  is  doubt 
ful  if  it  would  insure  progress.  The  little  com 
munities  founded  on  the  abnegation  of  personal 
ambition  have  found  it  hard  to  hold  on  to  their 
more  energetic  young  people. 

Unfortunately,  the  appeal  of  the  quietist  is 
more  effective  with  the  naturally  virtuous  than 
with  the  strong,  self-confident  sinner.  So  the 
way  of  the  transgressor  is  often  made  easier  than 
it  should  be. 

It  is  a  strategical  mistake  for  the  champion  of 
peace  to  spend  much  time  upon  the  naturally 
yielding  or  timid,  or  even  upon  those  with  whom 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE    221 

prudential  considerations  prevail.  These  do  not 
make  wars  nor  are  they  able  to  prevent  them. 

The  effort  must  be  made  to  convince  the 
strong-willed  and  ambitious.  Whether  the  strong 
man  be  a  hero  or  a  ruffian,  whether  his  purpose 
be  righteous  or  unrighteous,  he  must  be  made 
to  see  one  thing,  and  that  is  that  there  is  a  power 
that  is  stronger  than  he  is.  If  his  ends  be  just 
and  righteous,  he  must  be  assured  that  there  is 
a  power  strong  enough  to  do  for  him  more  than 
he  can  do  for  himself.  He  must  appeal  to  that 
power  and  trust  it.  If  he  be  impelled  only 
by  selfish  and  brutal  instincts,  he  must  be  made 
to  see  that  this  power  will  inevitably  stand  in 
his  way  and  overwhelm  him.  It  says  to  him, 
"Thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  no  farther." 

War  is  a  trial  of  "strength.  It  is  a  glorious 
hazard.  Peace  comes  when  one  confronts  a 
power  so  assured  that  a  trial  is  not  needed.  The 
result  of  conflict  is  certain. 

Let  us  consider  first  the  case  of  the  hero, 
the  strong  man  who,  in  defense  of  what  he 
believes  to  be  essential  justice,  takes  up  arms. 
You  see  the  man  coming  out  of  Edom,  "  trav 
eling  in  the  greatness  of  his  strength."  Why 


222     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

are  his  garments  red?  He  answers,  "I  have 
trodden  the  winepress  alone,  and  of  the  peo 
ple  there  was  none  with  me.  I  trod  them  in 
mine  anger  and  I  trampled  them  in  my  fury 
and  their  life-blood  was  upon  their  garments." 

These  are  terrible  words,  but  before  you  con 
demn  him  for  a  bloodthirsty  savage,  you  must 
remember  that  you  have  been  taught  to  "judge 
not  after  appearance,  but  to  judge  righteous 
judgment."  You  must  not  judge  him  by  his 
words  nor  by  his  blood-stained  garments. 

He  comes  out  of  Edom,and  you  should  try  to 
find  out  what  has  been  going  on  in  Edom  which 
has  roused  him  to  this  fury.  He  has  been  the  spec 
tator  there  of  deeds  of  unspeakable  cruelty.  He 
has  seen  the  weak  tortured  by  triumphant  and 
pitiless  foes.  He  has  been  himself  the  victim  of 
arbitrary  power.  "  I  looked  and  there  was  none 
to  help  and  I  wondered  that  there  was  none  to 
uphold.  Therefore  mine  arm  brought  salvation 
and  my  fury  it  upheld  me." 

The  "  therefore  "  represents  the  logic  of  the 
strong  man  in  the  presence  of  a  great  wrong. 
It  is  not  cool  logic,  but  logic  that  is  aflame  with 
passion.  The  premise  of  the  argument  is,  "there 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE    223 

was  none  to  help."  If  that  be  true  the  conclu 
sion  is  irresistible,  the  strong  man  must  himself 
take  the  responsibility  of  righting  the  wrong, 
and  he  must  do  it  with  such  means  as  he  has 
at  hand.  The  justification  of  his  fury  is  that  it 
upholds  him  in  the  work  which  he  is  compelled 
to  do. 

In  such  an  emergency  the  real  peace-maker 
puts  his  main  effort,  not  on  the  effect,  but  on  the 
cause.  He  seeks  to  remove  the  cause.  "Look 
again,"  he  says,  "and  you  will  see  that  it 
is  not  true  that  there  are  none  to  help.  I  am 
here  to  help,  and  behind  me  are  mighty  powers, 
able  to  do  quietly  and  effectively  what  you  are 
seeking  to  do  violently.  These  powers  have  been 
organized  for  this  very  purpose,  and  their  work 
ing  is  sure."  / 

If  the  hero  can  be  convinced  that  there  is  an 
adequate  power  to  do  justice  by  orderly  proc 
esses  he  lays  down  his  arms.  But  before  he 
disarms  he  makes  sure  that  there  is  something 
more  than  a  verbal  promise.  The  helper  must 
have  sufficient  force. 

On  the  other  hand,  turn  to  the  eighteenth 
chapter  of  the  Book  of  Judges  and  you  will  find 


224     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

another  type  of  war-maker  with  whom  you  must 
deal.  The  children  of  Dan  have  started  out  on 
a  free  booting  expedition.  Their  reasoning  is 
simple.  "  In  those  days  there  was  no  king  in 
Israel,  and  in  those  days  the  tribe  of  the  Dan- 
ites  sought  them  an  inheritance  to  dwell  in." 
So  they  sent  out  spies  who  "came  to  Laish 
and  saw  the  people  that  were  therein,  how  they 
dwelt  in  security  after  the  manner  of  the  Zidon- 
ians,  quiet  and  secure ;  .  .  .  and  they  were  far 
from  the  Zidonians." 

What  happened?  The  Children  of  Dan 
"came  unto  Laish,  unto  a  people  quiet  and 
secure,  and  smote  them  with  the  edge  of  the 
sword;  and  they  burned  the  city  with  fire.  And 
there  was  no  deliverer,  because  it  was  far  from 
Zidon." 

One  would  like  to  say  that  that  is  only  an 
cient  history,  and  that  such  things  do  not  hap 
pen  now  to  any  small  nation  that  lies  quiet  and 
secure.  Unhappily  the  facts  do  not  bear  out  this 
pious  wish. 

The  Children  of  Dan  have  their  logic  too. 
They  reason,  "Laish  is  weak,  we  are  strong; 
therefore  we  will  take  it  for  ourselves.  We  need 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE     125 

territory  for  expansion.  We  can  get  it  by  the 
strength  of  our  own  arms." 

If  such  wars  of  aggression  are  to  cease,  the 
Danites  must  be  confronted  with  a  power  which 
they  have  learned  to  respect.  When  they  say 
arrogantly,  "  We  will,"  the  quick  answer  comes, 
"  You  cannot."  Moreover,  this  restraining  power 
must  be  wise  enough  to  consider  and  redress  the 
real  grievances  of  the  Danites.  If  they  cannot 
take  the  means  of  livelihood  by  force,  there 
must  be  some  just  means  provided  for  them. 

The  question  of  keeping  the  peace  resolves 
itself  into  a  question  of  power.  We  must  find 
a  power  that  can  satisfy  the  legitimate  desires 
of  men,  and  repress  their  illegitimate  and  abnor 
mal  desires.  This  is  the  purpose  of  social  organ 
ization.  It  is  based  on  the  principle  that  all  men 
are  stronger  than  some  men.  If  we  could  find 
what  is  good  for  all  men,  and  then  get  all  men 
to  see  these  things  which  belong  to  the  common 
good,  we  should  have  the  power  to  enforce 
peace. 

Such  agreement  as  to  what  constitutes  the 
common  good  is  still  far  off,  but  mankind  has 
been  moving  toward  it.  Wherever  two  or  three 


226     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

are  met  together  for  a  common  purpose  there 
is  movement  away  from  anarchy.  People  have 
learned  to  say,  "  We." 

Two  notable  triumphs  of  peace  principles 
have  taken  place  —  the  family  and  the  nation. 

The  family  is  a  most  interesting  institution  to 
study  because  in  any  community  we  may  see  it 
in  all  stages  of  development,  from  the  pure 
despotism,  in  which  the  physically  strongest 
rules,  to  the  ideal  cooperative  commonwealth. 
But  after  ages  of  experiment  it  has  been  found 
that  the  highest  forms  have  proved  the  stronger. 

The  same  thing  has  proved  true  in  regard  to 
the  national  groups.  The  free  republic  has 
proved  to  be  one  of  the  strongest  of  political 
organizations.  It  is  the  triumph  of  reason  over 
brutal  passions.  It  involves  the  principle  of 
arbitration  as  opposed  to  the  trial  by  battle. 
Men  of  different  creeds,  callings,  and  education 
are  enabled  to  live  together  in  a  certain  territory 
without  resort  to  violence.  The  weaker  party  is 
not  crushed,  but  is  safeguarded  in  its  funda 
mental  rights.  Moreover,  ways  have  been  in 
vented  for  radical  changes  in  policy.  Every 
four  years  the  people  of  the  United  States  may 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE    227 

have  a  political  revolution  of  the  first  magnitude 
—  the  party  in  power  is  driven  out  in  a  single 
day  and  the  insurgents  are  installed  without  the 
firing  of  a  shot 

Human  nature  is  not  transformed,  but  reason 
determines  the  way  in  which  social  forces  may 
work.  The  marvelous  thing  is  that  these  ar 
rangements  are  not  upheld  merely  by  the  ideal 
ists  who  devised  them.  The  free  institutions  are 
supported  by  the  irresistible  might  of  all  citi 
zens.  The  hard-headed  and  narrow-minded  par 
tisans  who  ordinarily  oppose  each  other  bitterly 
will  on  the  instant  unite  in  defense  of  the  Con 
stitution.  Anarchy  has  only  to  be  recognized 
to  be  crushed. 

It  is  from  this  vantage-ground  won  by  past 
effort  that  we  can  best  use  our  power  for  the 
suppression  of  international  warfare  as  it  now 
exists.  The  peace-lover  makes  a  strategical  mis 
take  when  he  appeals  merely  to  the  individual 
conscience  and  treats  war  as  personal  prefer 
ence.  Very  few  individuals  prefer  going  to  war 
to  other  forms  of  human  activity.  It  is  as  mem 
bers  of  a  nation  and  in  obedience  to  the  social 
conscience  that  they  sacrifice  their  lives. 


228     THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE 

It  is  to  the  social  conscience  and  the  patriotic 
impulse  that  we  must  appeal  if  international  war 
shall  give  way  to  something  better. 

The  time  has  come  when  people  of  all  nations 
are  asking  how  that  which  is  most  precious  in 
their  nationality  can  be  preserved.  They  have 
tried  to  preserve  these  things  by  each  nation 
arming  in  its  own  defense.  At  last  the  weight 
of  necessary  armament  becomes  intolerable. 
And  when  the  long-prepared-for  conflict  comes, 
the  victor  and  the  vanquished  fall  in  common 
ruin. 

Certainly  it  is  not  beyond  the  wit  of  man  to 
devise  a  way  by  which  the  power  of  all  nations 
could  be  put  behind  a  few  simple  laws  which 
all  recognize  as  just  and  for  the  common  good. 
Our  notions  of  national  sovereignty  must  be 
revised,  so  that  we  shall  recognize  some  limits. 
So  we  have  had  to  define  the  liberty  of  the 
individual  before  we  could  have  a  nation  strong 
enough  to  safeguard  that  liberty. 

It  has  taken  time  and  ceaseless  effort  to  build 
up  a  government  of  the  people.  It  will  take 
more  time  and  greater  effort  to  bring  order  out 
of  the  present  international  anarchy.  But  the 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  PEACE    229 

same  forces  which  have  worked  hitherto  must 
be  used  in  the  task  that  awaits  us.  We  are  still 
in  a  world  where  "ignorant  armies  clash  by 
night."  It  is  our  task  to  dispel  that  ignorance. 
One  thing  we  know  and  that  is  that  when  men 
are  able  to  see  their  real  interests  they  will  see 
that  they  cannot  be  secured  except  by  world 
wide  cooperation. 


THE    END 


(OTbc  Btocnrtbe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


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OCT16    1933 

OCT   17  1933 

Ttf**4'        * 

.  

f    JW» 

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T*C'O  , 

tiiu                  ° 

FEE    191935         ' 

*w?»*i 

<-i  65~s  P«I 

JUN    5   1S35 

V+Tt 

_.      inlft. 

OCT  lb   W» 

JUN  17  1941 

>5Apr'5SFF 

APR1  7195,1  eg 

iaMu'$5S$ 

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24lV!ar'58fT 

REC'D  LD 

MAR  17  1958 

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